


The Bells of Oxford

by moz17



Category: Endeavour (TV), Lewis (TV)
Genre: mentions of abuse, mentions of past Jakes/Morse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-28 19:53:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2744999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moz17/pseuds/moz17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On endeavourheadcanons, someone made the wonderful suggestion that Peter Jakes could be James Hathaway's uncle, and this is the idea I have taken to be the basis of this piece.<br/>James has just left the seminary and meets his uncle in Oxford and finds himself able to talk with and confide in him. Peter attempts to help James as he struggles with his new career, difficult cases and his past. </p><p>(The mentions of past Jakes/Morse come from my fic "From Far, From Eve and Morning".)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The White Horse

Bloody Oxford. He'd probably never get away from here, would he? Fate's twisted sense of fun would most likely ensure he breathed his last in this city. It never really let you go once it got its hands on you. What was it that Morse used to quote? A twitch upon a thread, that was all it took to bring you back again.  
Peter turned off the car engine and sat for a moment, the late afternoon sun over-sharp as it came through the window. He wouldn't have chosen Oxford to meet but his nephew had been on some religious jaunt in and about the area, so it had made more practical sense for them to meet here. 

Too many ghosts, Peter thought, patting his jacket pocket for his cigarettes. Before, when he'd been a young man, those ghosts had been bad ones, representing faces and sensations he wanted so desperately to forget. He wasn't sure if these new ghosts were not worse; the phantoms of his former boss, former colleagues and lovers. These were memories he wished were even stronger and brighter. He simultaneously feared their fading and feared his attachment to them. Sergeant Jakes would've scoffed at his retired self and his tendency to get in his memories and lie down in them, something he had sworn he would never do. He got out of the car and approached The Trout.  
Thursday had passed away some years ago, found by Joan, appearing to have fallen asleep with his pipe in his lap. And then Joan herself- that had been cruel to Strange, having to watch his wife fade like that. It had been cruel to Joan herself. Such rage had burned in her eyes at how her body could no longer support her. Dr. DeBryn. Then Peter's own wife. Morse. Had it already been nearly three years since Morse had died? The sun beating down gave him no comfort or words of wisdom and the river gurgled on utterly indifferent. 

Peter had arrived before James and chose a table outside, knowing that they were both smokers. Though of late, in fairness, he had been trying to cut down. He had given them up before but taken it up again the evening he had learnt of Morse's death. He had decided to accept its presence in his life, his need for it while maintaining enough will power to reduce his consumption to a minimum.  
Still, he thought as he settled himself in his seat, having dispatched his order, and lit up a smoke, letting his gaze move over the scenery and those around him. Still, the weather was good, he was going to have a drink (probably have to take a taxi back later, which would be a mild irritation), he was enjoying a smoke. He wasn't in bad health. He was still here. That was alright. 

Now, he just had to sort out the situation his sister had sent him to sort out. Sinead had called him the previous week, pouring forth a confused story about a sort of family crisis which appeared to centre on his nephew, James. The lad had been a remarkable scholar and a strongly devout Catholic and joining the seminary seemed a natural fit. Yet, his sister was telling him how James had left and it was rather unclear whether he had been kicked out or whether he had chosen to leave. Probably a mixture of both, Peter suspected. 

"Could you try talk to him? I don't know what's going on, or what to even say." 

"Sinead, why would he talk to me?" 

Peter had been delighted at becoming an uncle and when James had been small he had regularly given him little presents and treats, like taking him to the cinema. It had been a simple relationship. Peter never wanted to be such a great presence that the lad would feel the lack of him when he couldn't be around, which inevitably happened. He had left Oxford and moved up to London, working steadily on his career, and bringing up his own family. They saw his sister's family at Christmas and any other important family events. He had noticed that his two daughters had never been the best of friends with James. The boy had become more and more a stranger to him as he had grown up. It was partly his own fault. Peter loved his sister; she was one of the very few who knew what it had been like to grow up in a string of institutions and homes. They would always be important to one another, bound by something they could not talk about, yet was always present. The problem was not his sister, but rather that he disliked his brother-in-law. He understood her reasoning in marrying him, though he had yet to admit that to her. He was a bit older than her, a brother of a girl she had worked with. Peter didn't believe that there was much love between them but they were still together. He had given a young Sinead a way out of a life of poverty, had given her security. There was nothing bad about the man. He was simply weak and Peter despised weak people more than bad ones. And he had let his dislike for the man keep him away from his sister too much. She had never questioned him about it and Peter had the suspicion that she was well aware of how her husband was perceived by some. 

"Well, since he won't talk to us about it I thought perhaps he'd be more willing with someone who is, I suppose, more neutral." 

Peter could only imagine that the lad would've had a tough time trying to talk to his father. He hadn't asked about his reaction to the whole situation, and nothing more in depth than a few cursory questions. He was determined to come to this unusual situation with as clear a slate as possible. He had no inkling as to what either of the parents, or even James himself wanted as a solution. Were they worried that James was on the slippery slope to dropping out of life? Were they concerned about what career path he might light upon next? Good God, did they want him to praise the advantages of joining the police force? Peter grimaced at his pint. 

Shadow covered him as a lanky frame placed itself in front of him. "Uncle Peter" came a low voice. He watched his nephew folding himself into the chair opposite him, the boy returning Peter's gaze with one that was still and calm but no less intense for that. 

Boy? He'd have to stop thinking of him like that. Having missed out on those years, Peter found it hard to reconcile the blonde kid he had seen holding onto Sinead's hand with the angular man across from him ordering a whiskey and lighting up a cigarette. All that artless enthusiasm was gone, strangled, or at least forcibly kept in check. Peter remembered his astonishment, and secret pride, when the boy began to show how intelligent he was. Sinead had shaken her head, more baffled than anything else, not quite sure how to deal with his precociousness. He enjoyed being able to tell others things, silly bits of trivia, facts. Sometimes James would get so caught up in an explanation, rushing ahead of himself so as to communicate it to whoever his audience happened to be. Often his father would only be able to tolerate a minimum of this from his son before barking at him to stop being such a know-it-all. Peter had seen the confusion in the boy's eyes at this reaction. He didn't ever get involved. They were James' parents, not him. He was the Uncle who showed up for irregular visits, it wasn't his place to comment.  
He had sought to restrain himself from giving the lad too many gifts. He didn't want him used to receiving things easily. Yet, when he saw that he had a capacity for his school work and beyond, and how easily he memorised chunks of the bible, Peter found himself giving James presents which he argued were useful, educational, things his parents wouldn't think of giving him. When Peter would come to visit the estate they lived on at Crevecoeur, he would stop off at Blackwell's and pick up a volume of poetry he remembered seeing on Morse's shelves in his bedsit. He hadn't read any of them himself, though he remembered the names of the poets. He remembered Morse quoting it; sometimes he quoted unending lines purely to needle and tease Peter. He would sit at the table, almost empty glass in hand, the uncapped whiskey bottle on the table, head thrown back as he languidly declaimed those words, words which were so very dear to him and were only as much pleasant noise to Peter. He understood it as someone would listen to a beautiful sounding foreign language, or a piece of opera; he didn't need to know exactly what Morse was saying. It went into him and he experienced it that way. There was no point for him in reading those pages now, for they lacked the only thing which had given them meaning- Morse's voice. 

James had adored the poetry, learning it off and always ready to recite it to his uncle when he came. Sinead told him of how James would have to read the volumes with a dictionary open beside him. He absorbed these new words so rapidly that on occasion she herself had to check the dictionary to keep up with her son's vocabulary.  
Peter had once given him a tape of classical music; he had imagined if the boy liked poetry he would likely enjoy this. He knew the next time he visited though that he hadn't. Nothing direct was said by him about it. He just didn't mention it and Peter never repeated the purchase. He was glad of it really. He didn't want to always associate him with Morse. The child was an individual in his own right; it would be unfair to saddle him with that ghost. 

As James had grown more and more withdrawn Peter had put it down to receiving slagging from the other boys at school for being brainy. Then had come Cambridge, then the seminary. Sinead had bloody nearly burst with pride. 

James' whiskey had arrived. Peter decided to lead with a direct question. In his experience, even if you didn't get the answer you were looking for, the reaction to such a blunt ask or the way it was answered could tell you more about what a person was really thinking or feeling. 

"Your mum tells me you've packed in the priesthood."

"Yes. Got kicked out. Didn't fit anyway." came the even response. 

Peter took a mouthful of his pint, giving himself a moment to consider this. His direct question had been met with an equally direct answer. Or so it would initially seem. But, scratching the surface, Peter found that his nephew had given him an answer that gave no information, a smokescreen, rather. Most people would have let it go, and he assumed that was the intention. Most would've considered a young man joining the priesthood as strange, not the giving up of it. They would understood it as James admitting it to have all been a phase, that he had tried it out and realised like any smart person that it really wasn't for him. Most people would've anyway, and he supposed that this was what James was counting on. 

And what did that second oh-so-casually thrown out sentence mean? It wasn't even a sentence, Peter mused. He hadn't said "It didn't fit anyway." or "I didn't fit anyway." Nor had it been "It didn't fit me." or "I didn't fit in." Just "Didn't fit anyway." What did that mean? What did you do to "fit" at a seminary? Had he tried to make himself fit, like a square peg in a round hole, or rather, had he been told he didn't fit or it didn't fit him? His direct non-answer muddied matters more than clarifying them, but in such a vague way that Peter didn't know quite how go about attacking them. He decided to go away from it for the moment. 

"So, you left the seminary and immediately embarked on a religious jaunt?" 

A smirk twisted James' mouth, Peter's phrasing of the question amusing him. "It was more a solitary jaunt, not necessarily religious." 

"Anti-religious?" 

James made a slight grimace, indicating that this was perhaps closer to the mark. "I didn't want to go back to Cambridge, I didn't want to go back home. I don't necessarily have the funds to go and attempt to find myself in India or wherever it is that is currently in vogue. Thoughts naturally turned to the other side of the academic coin- Oxford. But not the town itself; I went up to the White Horse. Have you been?" 

Peter nodded; he still remembered how the evening sun looked setting over the hill, how the grass had smelt and how he had turned and kissed Morse for the first time. The sensation of that memory still touching him, he refocused on James.

"It's a marking left by a pagan religion, isn't it?" The other details escaped Peter but he retained that much. 

"Epona, Goddess of love and fertility. Legend has it that if a woman sleeps on the horse's eye she will fall pregnant." 

That was it, Peter nodded to himself. What would attract James to such a place? And on his own? Did the lad not have a friend, a confidante, someone he could take off with for a mad weekend? Were all his friends those he had made through college or the church? Had he left them all behind? 

Something shifted into place for Peter and he felt he had at least a piece of the puzzle that was his nephew's current state of mind. 

"Were you up there trying to convert to paganism?" 

James huffed a breath out through his nose, an almost-snort, mid-drag on his cigarette. "Something like that." He lit another cigarette before continuing. "Leaving the seminary is such a change of course, such a huge statement. I thought it was what I wanted to do and that I had always wanted it. If I can be mistaken about something so fundamental then I have to seriously examine those other fundamentals which have been a part of my life."

"Your faith." 

James nodded, his eyes not entirely meeting Peter's. Something other than his faith then...? He didn't doubt that he wasn't telling him the truth, but he also wasn't telling him everything that was troubling him. The lad seemed uncomfortable. Had he perhaps been too embarrassed to talk about his faith and a crisis with it? Peter didn't believe himself but it was clear that James' faith was something intensely personal to him, something which he wanted to protect and he would not hesitate in retreating into oblique sentences and deadpan sarcasm in order to escape a perceived threat. 

"You had to see if leaving the seminary meant leaving your faith as well?" 

James nodded again, eyes still not quite focused on his uncle. "I wanted to go to a place that hadn't been formed by Christianity. To see how it...felt. I imagined it would be conducive to thinking. I wanted to try and spend some days as if I didn't believe." 

James paused for a long time and Peter waited, draining his glass. "And unfortunately," He resumed. "I can't divorce my faith." 

"Would you rather not believe?" 

"It's not a case of wanting. I just imagine it is easier not to." 

"So, the seminary is out, but not your faith."

"That would seem to be about as far as I have got, yes."

"Any idea about what comes next?" 

"Another drink?"


	2. Broken Dialogue

The deep brown-orange liquid waited in front of him and instead, James chewed on his thumbnail. Realising what he was doing he pulled his fingers from his mouth and sought to cover this rather abrupt gesture and the behaviour before it by reaching for the tumbler. His uncle had been on the police force long enough for none of this to have escaped his notice; it was what James admired about him but which also left him a little apprehensive. 

Uncle Peter certainly cut an impressive figure; though James was now taller than him he still felt himself to be the shorter. His hair had gone fully grey, not a trace of black remaining. The face was lined, making it almost noble, it appeared to James. There was nothing gentle in them, they were sharp lines, deeply dug, not the sweet twinkling of an elderly relative's eyes. There were scarcely any photos of his uncle when he was young, something he had always wondered about. Odd, how obvious his uncle's signs of age appeared to him compared with how he found himself shocked when he realised his own mum was nearly the same age. In his mind, she remained young, yet coming face to face with her was like trying to overlap two mismatching negatives. It made him aware of his own age more keenly, how he was now an adult and really shouldn't be indulging himself in career changes and worrying others unnecessarily. 

He chanced a more direct glance at his uncle. In spite of always getting on well with him there had been an element of mystery surrounding him which they had never broken down. James was convinced he had cultivated this intentionally; something in his behaviour told him that Peter wanted to keep himself at a distance from his extended family, and in particular his nephew. James had never worked out if his uncle was afraid for him or rather, afraid of him in a strange way. He had more than enough self-awareness to know that his uncle didn't dislike him. If he disliked anyone it was his father. Well, James could understand that. Perhaps that was unfair- he didn't dislike his father. Or he perhaps just didn't allow himself to dislike him. Maybe one day he would even be able to broach this topic with Peter. 

James nipped at the whiskey, wanting very much to knock it back in one go, but the worry that a second drink would loosen his tongue too much constrained him. He had a tendency to do that, he had noticed in himself; he was either sphinx-like, not a word passing his mouth, or he would blurt out the most personal information in one dense sentence at the wrong time and usually to the wrong person. That was his other great fault- someone could show themselves to be friendly or appreciative toward him and his sense would go out the window. Grief, he would've made a terrible priest; distant yet trusting and naive by turns. James was sure that it was this lack of balance in him, which he had taken such great measures to hide, that had first alerted his superiors in the seminary to keep a watchful eye on him. He had had a moment when he had, almost in spite of himself, turned to one of his fellow trainees for support and the look of alarm which had crossed his face was still vivid in James' memory. 

Oh, he couldn't think about all that. He simply didn't have the capacity to be equal to that task. Awful headaches had plagued him in recent months and it was only in the past couple of days that they had really begun to abate. Yet despite the pain, he was not capable of emptying his mind entirely, just as he was incapable of doing utterly nothing. Even if it was a solitary or rather quiet activity, he had to be doing something at least, whether it was cooking, rowing, learning an instrument, cleaning or studying. The timetabled day at the seminary, down to the very minute, had been what he had liked the most, he admitted to himself. He found it comforting and deeply satisfying to be always occupied, and useful; or at the very least, to be engaged in structured activity. 

When the headaches had faded and some of his ability to reason and worry an argument had returned to him he had consciously chosen to focus on the question of his faith. He had once more banished thoughts of Crevecoeur, of Will McEwan, knowing that if all these things crowded into his mind at once, the house of cards which was his post-seminary life would flutter into sheer nothing. A small part of his mind, bawling incessantly, attempted to turn his attention to how flawed his logic was in this argument; for how did he expect to seriously interrogate or understand his relationship to his religion if he was going to exclude those two aspects from it? 

Just not now, James asked his empty glass. It was tough enough attempting to make sense of the blur of the past few weeks, never mind his entire life leading up to it. One day he had been in the seminary and the next he was gone and he wasn't entirely sure how that had all rushed by him. He had really only come back to himself when he had reached Oxford and it was a mere three days ago that he'd been able to pray again. 

Would he be able to explain to Peter the sense of relief that had hit him with a thud at being able to open up that channel again, to turn inside himself and spill forth those phrases which he had always held so dear? James got exasperated with himself for this on occasion; it would appear he was only capable of pouring forth such intense feelings to God without fear of ridicule. Yet his uncle seemed unexpectedly understanding about his religious feeling. Perhaps such a statement could be used as a sort of litmus test and depending on his reaction he could pursue it further or drop it entirely, passing it off with a joke, some sarcasm. 

"I wasn't able to pray. I missed it. It's come back to me since I left the seminary." He affected a casual air, draped across his seat, one leg over the other, but really he was scrutinising his uncle's face for a hint of scorn.

"Did you have a row with God, or did you just stop talking to him? Or did he do something to piss you off?" 

There was no mockery in his words. He posed it as a perfectly reasonable question, wishing to know the nature of the issue and understand precisely what James meant, which was something else he would have to be wary of. 

"If I say all three but at the same time none of the above that won't make a heap of sense, will it?" 

"No, but I'm sure you're quite capable of putting it in context for me." He wasn't going to let James get away with everything and the sentence was issued almost as a challenge it would seem. So, James took a moment to gather his thoughts and sought to put some shape and narrative onto the matters that had been pressing on him for months now. 

"My faith, my approach to religion is very DIY, something I fell into. It was never forced on me. Naturally, there was a bible at home and mum made us go to church semi-regularly. Initially, they were just pretty words and stories that I liked. Then it was almost an exercise out of boredom to memorise chunks of the bible. There wasn't ever a light-bulb moment for me. I think I have always, as far back as I can remember, accepted God. I didn't question that they existed, so it wasn't something to get excited about or look upon as special. It was just there. My deeper preoccupation with it all came about indirectly through the poetry books you would give me. I had never thought to use the dictionary when I was reading the bible. The bible wasn't like other books, it was more like the words to a song which you just knew and repeated, the meaning didn't enter into it. But after I started checking every new word I found in Housman or Clare I began doing the same with the bible. I must've been twelve at the time. We'd just left the estate and so I suspect I had a lot of free time on my hands, not having my old friends or occupations any longer. Each word had so many meanings as to make each tiny story in the bible absolutely epic in meaning. It was a puzzle I couldn't solve, it was unending. Even before I studied theology my fascination was for words and what God was offering in them. In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God. That has been the basis of, well, everything for me. 

"Then when I did get to Cambridge, I was able to pursue my own interests. I could pick and choose what I wished to study and I did that happily. I suppose what I'm trying to explain is that most of my relationship with God when I was younger was free from dogma, it was something I had not really been exposed to. I instead drew on many other faiths, incorporating ideas that appealed to me or that clearly went well with Catholicism and created a patchwork faith. But, the figure I prayed to was very much God, the version of the being I conceived them to be. And prayer was- is- the most important aspect to me. It is my renewing my belief, it's like pouring water on a plant and pruning the leaves. And it is a dialogue- or again, rather, I see it as a dialogue. God has given me words and ideas for life and my prayer is my response to that. I've always seen myself as being religiously in collision with my holy book and that is the basis of my dialogue with God. And that was how I went about with religion, oblivious, until I started at the seminary.

"It was a bloody great shock. I stuck out unbelievably, and it seemed my answers and ideas were always, always wrong. And, well, it's going to sound stupidly school-boyish but I don't like being wrong, or being told I'm wrong. It's embarrassing." James stopped for a moment, reminding himself not to tell his uncle everything. If he could be fully honest, he would've told Peter that being told constantly that what he said and thought was wrong had frightened him, shook him to his core, taken him right back to the cold heart of his childhood. 

"I suppose, I gave in. The seminary was so insular to begin with and I convinced myself to take on those ideas. And because I had only made my faith out of playing with a dictionary and academic study, nothing directly involved with the church, I considered myself a layman and felt I couldn't justify my clumsy convictions in the face of their authority. Everything had one answer. After a while that was alright. It was comforting to have such certainty. 

"The worrying thing is, however, that if this had been the only issue, I believe I would've managed to continue on and completed my training. But since I had taken on these single interpretations, accepted these answers as the one and only, my image of God began to change. He was transformed into this figure that I didn't recognise and didn't like. He left me cold. This figure didn't want to talk to me, didn't want to engage in the dialogue we'd always shared. Rather he was like one of those dolls; you squeeze their hand and no matter how many times you do that they just repeat their same five set responses. It wasn't the case that I chose to stop talking to him; I couldn't talk to him, the possibility was gone. 

"And that was what made me want to leave, even if my desire to leave the place was unconscious, unknown even to myself initially." He paused again briefly, pushing down the thoughts of the horribly botched conversation which had really made him want to leave the seminary. Will's face flickered to life across his mind and was gone once more. Peter did not need to know about that; even without that information he believed that what he was telling his uncle made sense. "I continued on. But I was angry. It was as if I were experiencing that moment of childhood, you know, when your toys and imaginary games lose their magic. You lose that ability to believe in their being real. With each day that passed in the seminary I was certain I would lose any last shred of belief I had managed to protect. It would one day no longer be the case that God wasn't talking to me, but that God could never have been talking with me because he had never existed. In many ways, I am a small, limited person. I've never been interested in proving the existence of God or convincing everyone that this is the one truth. My aim as a priest had always been that I would talk to those who would want to listen. Of course, I am interested in the different manifestations of religion throughout history and civilization, but I don't need to have unequivocal proof on the subject. My belief is my own proof. I believe in God; that's all I want to be left alone with. God is where I explore my subjectivity."

James pressed his lips together, nearly tempted to sit on his hands to prevent himself from biting down on his thumb. He had halted himself mid-flow, just to check that he could still keep his mouth in check. He found himself holding his breath for longer than needed, another pointless act, known only to himself, another test to reassure himself that his thoughts and movements were subject to his will. 

"James," Peter was regarding him in a deceptively casual way and yet it didn't put him any more on his guard than he had been already. His uncle would say exactly what he felt he wanted to say, he wouldn't hold back for fear of giving offence. He also wasn't a time-waster, so he knew he would be to the point. James could well imagine the bored gaze he must have inflicted on waffling witnesses. 

"James, I know any young person hates to be reminded of their youth, especially by an older relative, but do you think that your age could have something to do with you being willing to let the priests at the seminary influence you so much? You're an intelligent man and you know that you are- and yet, it sounds as if you were ready to say that your carefully constructed beliefs were inferior to them. Seems as if you have a problem with authority figures, and I don't mean rebelling against them, I mean submitting to them." 

James couldn't suppress a violent snort. "I long ago stopped listening to or wanting to please authority figures."

Peter merely took out his cigarette pack before giving his nephew a sidelong glance. "Certain authority figures, perhaps." 

James felt ice-cold sweat trickling down his back, his clothes restrictive all of a sudden, the previously pleasant evening now oppressive. He had to get away from that comment. 

"What are you saying, that I have a chronic case of being a teacher's pet?" 

"No. I think you're someone who received a lot of praise for being smart and doing well at school, and that you've spent most of your life in an academic setting." 

James rattled the melting ice-cubes in his glass, wishing he could throw the glass against the ground and somehow have a different life to the one he found himself grappling with. 

"But that is so insulting to God." He managed to bite out, not allowing his words to rush together or his voice to tremble. "That I would chuck my faith aside for some Ersatz belief merely to get a pat on the head."

"It would've been an insult if you'd kept doing it and stayed at the seminary. It would've been an insult if you said one thing to those priests whilst believing something else. You found your way back to your God, you chose it over the seminary, you chose it over being comfortable and remaining somewhere familiar, and somewhere that I think in many ways suited you. If I was God," Peter allowed his mouth to smile just a bit. "I'd be proud of you for doing that."

James was seized by a near over-powering desire to simply lay his head on the table and weep, but a few seconds passed and he managed to swallow it back down. 

"Another?" Peter indicated their glasses. 

James shook his head. "No thanks." 

"Any immediate plans?" 

"For the first time in my life, no. Not a single one. I think I need to stand still for a bit in order to go forward, if you know what I mean." 

"As long as there's nothing behind you, waiting to catch up on you." Peter said baldly. 

For the second time in the conversation, all alarm bells were set clanging in James' head. The things his uncle could come out with sometimes, they were absolutely knife-edge close to the bone. Had this been Peter's experience of life? What had his experience been in life? He wasn't equal to such speculation just now. The attempt at picturing how his mum and Peter were together as kids didn't help throw light on this subject, least of all because he simply couldn't imagine them as children. Instead, he allowed his train of thought to be carried off by the sound of the river's movement. 

"I do love it here." James murmured, not minding whether Peter heard him or not. 

"Ach, there's no hope for you." Peter said, half-mocking. "Bound to Oxford for life." 

"I would like to point out that we are in fact some kilometres from Oxford proper." 

"No, I'm afraid you're a lifer, like me. A twitch upon a thread and you'll always be back here." 

James jerked in his seat. "Wouldn't expect a Waugh reference from a Chief Superintendent." 

"Never expect anything." 

"What, from you?" James asked, trying to make the tone of the conversation somewhat lighter. 

Peter flicked his cigarette butt into the river. "Perhaps."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though I don't believe myself I've always been interested in the idea of faith, but just to say that my version of Hathaway's beliefs are not based closely on any religious text, but more from my idea of his character. The phrase "religiously in collision with your holy book" is a quote from John Moriarty, an Irish philosopher.


	3. Moving Out

In spite of the years passing, and the higher rank that came with them, Peter could never quite shake off the slight uncertainty he experienced when walking into somewhere like a bookshop, or a serious music shop. He put on a good show, of course. His strategy had always been to go in armed with the name of one writer, then find an assistant who was younger than him and issue them with this order; that usually gave the impression that he knew what he was talking about, when in fact, the names meant nothing to him, they were just a collection of words passed on to him by Morse. 

After the evening in The Trout, Peter found himself returning to the bookshops long left unfrequented, dredging up names from the dusty corners of his memory. He then passed these books onto James, using the excuse of having missed a fair few of the lad's birthdays in recent years. James' face would light up over these gifts, and Peter wondered if it wasn't just him who had been neglecting his birthdays. He knew his sister wouldn't let anyone's birthday pass unnoticed but he could imagine that his brother-in-law perhaps forced family celebrations down to the bare minimum. For mixed with the simple child-like joy at receiving an unexpected present was a certain amount of reserve James attempted to graft on top of his genuine reaction. Somewhere along the way the boy had learnt to be suspicious of gifts, or he had been made to feel embarrassed or ashamed for expressing happiness over them. Or was he maintaining this degree of reservation so as to indicate to Peter that there was distance between uncle and nephew still? Such suspicions were justified on James' part, really. Peter had walked back into his life only during the so-called crisis and at his sister's request. The lad was most likely on high alert, worried that Peter was going to force a particular solution upon him. Could he explain to James the two main reasons he had for this flurry of gift giving? 

One was merely that he rarely had anyone to give presents to these days. His two daughters were older than James, and too many important others were no longer with him. Even as a young man on a Sergeant's wage he had enjoyed showering his dates and partners with little presents, a magpie himself, seduced by shiny, pretty things. He had always liked that, the wooing process as it were, the courting; quite often he had enjoyed that aspect more than the relationship itself. Secondly, though he tried to deny it and scoffed at the thought, he was concerned about his nephew, and the potential for taking a wrong turn was still present. Even worse, Peter believed that the potential for James to make the right choice but to undertake it in the wrong way was very likely. He hadn't been fooled by the boy; yes, he had been honest with, probably more honest than he'd been with anyone in a long time. However, his faith and the seminary was the not the entirety of the issue- it ran far, far deeper than that. Faith was tied up with it, painfully so, but Peter couldn't even begin to follow the thread back to undo that tangle. It left him wishing he could advise James, tell him what to do to avoid a huge mistake. This wasn't an option. He simply didn't know enough of what was going on to be in a position to dispense advice, not even of the most general sort. Furthermore, he knew that if he gave James blunt advice that James would roll up inside himself as a hedgehog would and that would be that. So, unable to do anything else but needing to be doing something at least, he gave James copies of those books called classics, hoping that words he himself had never read or even wanted to understand, words that had survived for hundreds of years, would contain some form of wisdom that James could latch onto. Also, having gifts to give James allowed him to arrange to meet up with his nephew. Neither of them were at the stage where they felt they could just ring the other up and ask if they felt like having a drink; there always had to be a reason. He liked his nephew, he found, in spite of the prickliness- or was it because of it? Been a long time since he'd had some to properly spar with. 

This time it had been James who had arranged the meeting. Peter pushed open the door to the music shop, the bag containing the E. M. Forster novels he had purchased for his nephew slapping against his calf as he moved. This time the books would act as a housewarming gift; James had told him that he'd got himself a job working in a music shop, which meant he could now afford to find his own small flat. The job was clearly a stop-gap but Peter though it was a good idea, get the lad out doing something. Even better for him to get out of the family home and spend some time in a place of his own, a place that was not on campus or in the seminary. 

When James had told him he was working in a music shop, Peter had assumed he meant a place which sold CDs and the like. Instead he was in a shop which dealt with instruments; guitars hung on the walls and strange pieces of paraphernalia filled the floors and shelves, items whose function Peter could not even guess at. He hadn't realised James had any sort of knowledge on actually playing music. Scanning the shop, he finally caught sight of James and was slightly startled to see he had shorn off his hair; all that remained was a blondish sheen, a hint of hair. Appearing even more serious than before, he looked harder and more angular. The shop was emptying out and James was clearly preparing to leave. James looked up and caught sight of Peter. He smiled by way of greeting, a smile that inevitably seemed more a of a smirk on James. 

"Are you trying to look like a monk again or something?" Peter nodded at his nephew's head. The smirk deepened and he responded once they were outside the shop and he had locked the door. 

"Seminary chic. I hear it's all the rage these days. Wouldn't want to get left behind now, would I?" 

Peter still couldn't work out if James being sarcastic was an indicator of a positive or negative mood or reaction. He wasn't certain he ever would know.  
Following the lad down the road, he found himself having to make some effort to keep up with him. James hadn't noticed and Peter would be damned if he'd admit it to him. 

The flat they entered was on the ground floor, small; however, it was clear James had already been hard at work on it. Devoid of furniture except for the essentials, the walls were painted the palest yellow, and neatly lined book shelves and carefully stacked CD towers had been discreetly put up. No photos. A guitar case was propped in the corner. Peter flicked his eyes briefly over the shelves; alphabetised, of course. A small "hmph" escaped from Peter in place of a smile when he realised James had kept all the books he had given him, even from back when he was a small child. The bible was there, naturally. Not a fancy copy though, probably the same copy he'd had all his life. Peter could only imagine what the bedroom looked like. 

James placed two glasses and a bottle of whiskey on the table. They sat, facing each other, both lighting up their cigarettes at the same time. 

"You like it?" 

"What, the flat? Yeah." Peter nodded his head. "Not for me, mind you, but I like it. It's a bit minimalist, is that the word?" 

"It's just what I wanted." James was pouring out the whiskey for them, generously. "I got the job and then I knew I could afford to get somewhere of my own. Cleaning out my room was fantastic. Probably chucked about half of the stuff, left behind this empty room. It was stripped bare, as if no-one had been there, no traces whatsoever." He paused to swallow half of his whiskey. "Nice to be able to let go of things so easily." 

"Some things can be, yes." Peter expelled the smoke from his mouth in one concentrated stream. 

"My parents were delighted." James skipped lightly over Peter's comment. "I think they're convinced that everything's sorted now, that I'll just do this," He gestured vaguely around him. "for the rest of my life and it will all be fine." 

"But you have no intention of that." 

"For now. It's great. I'm enjoying it. Having an income is a decent situation to be in. Nice to live on my own. But it is a transition, a facilitation of sorts." 

"To...?"

"To the next thing, whatever the next thing will be." 

Peter said nothing, seeing the lad had fallen inexplicably into a contradictory mood. Was this because he had started talking about his family or the future? What had set it off? His comment? Better to wait for him to start talking again. 

"You think I'm wasting my potential." 

"I think you could potentially be wasting your potential." Peter parried. 

"You think I'm throwing my education away, I suppose." 

"No, but you seem to be unsure on that one yourself." 

"Just because I'm good at something, doesn't mean I have some obligation to dedicate my life to it. I could be a gifted piano player but nowhere does it say that I have to become a concert pianist if I don't want to." James' lip was almost quivering in barely concealed disgust. Peter was somewhat taken aback by such a strong reaction, yet he continued to sit quietly and smoke. Everything was so raw with James at the moment, or nearly raw. It all lay just below the surface, a tumult scarcely remaining under water, a breath away from breaking through. Peter could well understand that feeling. This time instead of saying nothing, he decided to press the sore spot; he was curious to see what his reaction would be at least, even if nothing else productive came from it. 

"I thought you played guitar." He said casually. "Or can you play piano too?" 

"I could. Used to be able to. Didn't like it. I was good at it. But I hated it." James poured himself another measure of whiskey; he appeared to drift off for a split moment, eyes unfocused, forgetting to refill Peter's glass. For most people that lapse would've gone undetected, but Peter noted it, not knowing how to understand it. 

"Actually, I think you've been having a greater influence on me than you know. I've been considering joining the police." 

"Are you serious?" 

"Yes." James retorted, miffed somewhat. "Do you think it's not a good option?"

"It's certainly an option." 

"You chose it." 

"Ah, well, things were different for me." 

"How so?" James challenged. 

"All I mean...look, I didn't have the same opportunities as you when I was young. Perhaps things weren't so easy for you, yes, I'm aware, but still, it was better than what I had. Honestly, James, my father, your grandfather, died when we were kids and mum, my mother, well- nowadays, I suppose it would be called a breakdown. Back then it was called taking to your bed. I ended up in a series of state run homes. When I left, I didn't have very many choices. The police was one of them and I went for it, straight off."

There it was. Part of his grubby, unspectacular childhood. Why had he done that? Wanted to show James that nothing is at it seems. Useful tool for life, especially for the police. He tried to gauge James' reaction. Clearly this was the first time he had heard any of this. His brow was furrowed, eyes cast down towards the table, slouching even further down in his chair. 

"That means that mum went through homes as well?" He was merely looking for confirmation of this. Peter nodded. 

"Listen. Don't talk to your mum about it. Best to let on that you don't know." 

"Why?" Oh, James really had moments when he sounded an utter child. 

"Because people generally don't like knowing that someone has told their secrets to others." Peter paused to light up another cigarette. "Also, me and your mum have never even spoken about that time to each other." 

James was focused quietly on this piece of information, worrying it, reviewing all he knew in light of it. Peter watched him as his concentration grew deeper. Sure, he had plenty of qualities which would make him a good copper- and plenty others which would make the job the wrong fit for him. Bloody hell. Peter touched his fingertips to his forehead, a futile gesture to ward off the unasked for reminder of Morse.  
That'd be James' problem, not being able to knock around with the other blokes, or take a slagging, soften his sharp corners. Life would be consistently awkward and downright tough for him on the force. The police wasn't a natural fit. 

Perhaps though, that was exactly it, Peter thought. Perhaps he wanted to deliberately place himself in a situation where he would constantly be thought a square peg in a round hole, where he would always be considered the odd man out. An act of self-defense, of insurance- he wanted to be viewed as odd and have the blame put on how he was ill-fitted to the job. He did not want to be in such a situation where his sense of being marked could be traced back to somewhere, something else. He wanted no questions asked. 

Wouldn't be an entirely ill-fit though, Peter mused. Police work demanded patience, meticulousness, a certain type of intelligence. James was difficult to read, which would be good in interviews. Be good for office politics- it would also be bad for office politics. Perhaps the idea wasn't so very bizarre after all. 

"Which do you think is a worse fate?" James sighed out cigarette smoke. "To have someone tell your secrets to others, to tell them for you, or to never tell them?" 

Peter reached for another cigarette and finding his packet empty, reached for James'. 

Peter had forced himself to tell Morse about Blenheim Vale, did it in spite of himself, going against everything he had taught himself once he had left the place. Regret was not one of the emotions he had experienced when Morse's face contorted into a painful mixture of outrage and compassion. Poor Morse, he'd been utterly clueless as to how to help but he had tried, tried and on many occasions had got it wrong. Yet, mixed in with Morse's bumbling attempts, there had been moments of real solace. 

"I honestly don't know. Depends though, doesn't it? What counts as a 'someone'?" Peter eventually replied. 

"Your fellow man, surely?" 

"Does God not count then in this? Is praying, or confession even, not meant to be an act of laying yourself bare before God?" 

"God knows all our miserable, mortal secrets already, that's not the point of confession or prayer. It is the act of telling; in telling and making yourself vulnerable to God, you are admitting that you are conscious of the truth of what you're saying and accepting of it." 

"So, God listens and he approves of such prayers?" Peter was intrigued by James' faith, about how the lad expressed himself on the subject. "He's a facilitator in this situation?" 

"Yes. Which is why I think having someone tell your secrets is worse. There is nothing good involved in it, nothing better than just a love of scandal or demonstrating power over another person by taking their story from them. There is nothing in that act which betters the person from whom the secret has been taken." 

Peter looked at his nephew, who was lying back in his chair, his gaze turned upwards, cigarette at his lips, his other hand balancing his glass on his thigh, and he realised that it was possible James would never tell the secrets he held to anyone except his God.


	4. Appearances

Though he'd lit up a cigarette the very moment he had stepped outside of the police station, James didn't enjoy it. Of course, a show was made of enjoyment; he stood nonchalantly outside the main doors, his first case behind him, and lit up; left hand in his pocket, cigarette held between forefinger and thumb, shoulders rounded, head angled down as he took a drag. This was a stance adopted by James long ago and practiced repeatedly so as to become second nature. An awareness of others watching him wasn't the decisive factor- it was that they potentially could be viewing him which contributed to his need for this pose. He also feared breaking character, toppling the image he was cultivating for himself. James had long ago learnt that you could act your way into a feeling. He had already convinced his body and one day, through repetition and sheer bloody-mindedness, he would convince his mind as well that he was enjoying this smoke under what he believed were many hostile eyes. He took no satisfaction from the inhalation of nicotine until he was far out of sight of the police station. 

It had always been like this and probably always would be; in this lifetime, at least. James had resigned himself to this continuous struggle between his mind and his body, and to the need to discipline that irrational, unruly vessel with which he was obliged to navigate through the world. Why couldn't his body be other than what it was? A certain disappointment regularly made itself felt, over the state of the frame he inhabited. It was just so bloody awkward, and attention-seeking, without even wanting to be. Did he have to be so tall and gangly, all legs and a head above those around him, always? Did he have to be so blonde? It never failed to make him feel silly and undermined on some fundamental level. Apparently, the way he was put together was considered by many others to be aesthetically pleasing, even enticing, which he utterly recoiled from. Yet, he didn't want to insult or offend his maker by denying or modifying his physical self, though he did have to question why He had seen fit to shackle him with this. He could never fathom as to why he had been forced to live in a body which had attracted such sinful reactions, a body which seemed impossible to reconcile with his mind, his soul. If only his body had been as easy to school as his mind was. One thing James Hathaway did not lack for, and that was discipline and focus; he had applied both assiduously in taking his body to task and yet, the results were temporary at best, it had so far proved. 

He had trained himself to master his ridiculously long limbs, to walk casually and easily through the world he occupied; he no longer accidentally elbowed those near him or clocked his head on doorways. He blamed this residual inability to negotiate space on his childhood reaction to his first growth spurt, followed by the onset of puberty; his reaction had been to simply pretend it wasn't anything to do with him. This frame might have been his but that did not mean he had to acknowledge it; such was his reasoning when young. He had to pay for that later as he learned to reacquaint himself with dealing with a physical body that needed to be displayed and deployed for professional purposes.  
Shaving his head had lent him a sense of appearing more serious, less soft and silly. Having spent much of his life scorning the idea of fashion (and not necessarily having the funds to waste on such items), he had realised they could be utilised to project a professional image. He had invested a hefty amount of his earnings from the music shop into purchasing suits, shirts, ties, the lot. Some would've called the deliberateness in his choice of attire a touch too thought-out, or even glamorous, but James countered that worry by reminding himself that a word such as "glamour" implied distance, a certain unapproachable aura.

He knew it to be wrong, and yet he could not prevent himself from experiencing moments of blind jealousy of those who didn't have to wage a daily battle as he did, those who moved with their bodies unthinkingly, oblivious to how much hell it was for him sometimes. Not that he wanted anyone to ever have an inkling of that. 

There were rituals he needed in relation to his body, to keep it under control, to keep it clean and serving a function and no more than that. If he didn't act vigilantly, it would betray him; in spite of all the years his mind had exerted its control over it, he still had moments when his body's reactions, or the sensation of something, or even another's reaction to it would set off connections and long disowned memories which then sought to force their way back in. In those extreme moments only extreme actions would suffice to put everything back in order. This was how he rationalised his sporadic application of lit cigarettes and blades to his own flesh (flesh which had been marked already). He knew it would grieve Him when he took such measures against himself but he had to. There was just no other solution in those overwhelming moments. Certain religious orders more than approved of such acts of bodily mortification. In his more despairing moments, when even repeated prayer made little headway, he was aware he was a mere step away from attacking his own body, his face, wanting to tear from it whatever it possessed which was labelled "attractive". He wished for a different relationship to his body, an easier one. These thoughts, however, remained meaningless wishes, not prayers. He only prayed for those things which he felt he was capable of changing, or at least held some hope for. 

It would've been nice to have a body like his new Inspector- and James was aware how strange that statement might sound, and how most others would receive it, yet that was not how he intended it. It was nothing like that- rather, he experienced a strong wish to stand at this man's side, a mixture of wanting to stand alongside him as a colleague, and another odd sensation, of feeling his Inspector to be taller than him, though this was not the reality. The older man seemed to be so quietly certain in himself, years of care and worry wonderfully sewn into his face in a way different to Uncle Peter- his Uncle's appearance was impressive, commanding respect and a certain distance. The Inspector's lines had been put there out of a deeply held compassion, a fundamental kindness and keenly felt sense of right and wrong. James liked the unapologetic presence of this man, and coveted it for himself, knowing he would likely never attain it. So great had been this pull towards the older man, it had caused him to rashly put forward the offer of first refusal. James would normally have shrunk from such pushy behaviour, yet something told him that Inspector Lewis would not say no. That had to mean something good about him, didn't it, if someone like Inspector Lewis actually agreed to work with him, to take him on. 

\------------------------------------------

The following weekend James made the short trip to London to visit his Uncle. He knew Peter would enjoy hearing about his new job, in spite of his initial (and perhaps residual) skepticism. He hadn't visited Peter's apartment in London and he was intrigued to see him in his adopted city. James couldn't understand what Peter found in London; he had never liked the city, so jumbled and crushed together and harsh. Long, unbroken lines or pleasing arches and curves had always been more to his taste, and widely spaced apart buildings. Probably one of the reasons why he found himself so at home in Oxford- the houses there were regular and neat, and not only was there room for greenery and water, here old relics were valued- the graveyards, their churches, the high-ceilinged libraries. He reveled in this, often standing at his window as the sun set, calmness pouring into him. Of course, on Peter's salary, he was living in a swish part of London and James knew he took a slightly childish delight in the impression his address gave. 

He was admitted to the apartment and while Peter furnished the table with glasses and a bottle of Springbank Scotch, James surreptitiously snooped through the flat, allowing his eyes to roam over everything. The place was very clean, overly so; yet though the surfaces shone, a nonchalant untidiness was apparent. Interesting. A man who took pride in his surroundings and his appearance but treated them carelessly at the same time. Had to be a cleaning lady who did most of the work around here. It wasn't that his Uncle was a slob, rather, quite the opposite. This was disdain, signalling that he was above such petty concerns as cleaning his own floors. It also seemed an act to demonstrate how lightly he held his possessions, and how they did not possess him. The scant regard he gave his flat was a distancing act, a show of power. If Peter had to move tomorrow- fine. He could get another place, no problem. What was there to hold him here anyway? There were no photographs on display, yet James was certain that they were hidden elsewhere. Peter would never share something so personal and precious as photos with whomsoever should enter his flat. James simply didn't keep photos, having no use for them. Why would he want to see a representation of himself, or of others whom he used to know? Peter, he imagined, took his photos out in secret and enjoyed them, greedily. 

His Uncle continued to be an enigma to him. This did not mean he wanted to 'crack' any code in relation to him. James was happy for Peter to simply be a presence in his life. The sense of a distance was almost what drew him to his Uncle, if he was going to be harshly honest. He felt secure enough that Peter would remain consistent in his detached attitude, and though he might probe and jab with his prickly, or at other times, opaque comments, James believed he would never truly make an attempt to bridge that unnamed gap. However James knew this only covered a steely centre- he would not have been able to stand up to his Uncle in a police interview. 

The information about his mum's childhood had come as a shock to him, though he sought not to dwell on it too deeply. He had not ever heard his mother make so much as a passing hint or reference to these circumstances. James wasn't shocked by that so much- in his family, they hardly discussed anything. Indeed, the closest they had come to admitting that there had been a 'crisis', as James called it in his head, had been his mum's turning to Peter for help. 

Perhaps there was another layer to Peter's attitude to his apartment and its upkeep; having come from such a background, he refused to subject himself to work such as that and he took pride in being able to pay for someone else to do it. James, however, had grown up more without than with and yet, would recoil at someone undertaking such work for him. He would always do his own cleaning, not least because he found it calming, almost hypnotic. It quieted his nerves and made his mind blank for a time. Also, the thought of having a stranger pawing through his private space caused him nearly to shudder. 

Peter had poured a healthy measure for them both. "So, I suppose a toast is in order? Congratulations Sergeant."

James raised his glass too, and allowed himself a pleased smile which he knew always manifested itself as a smirk no matter what he did. 

"How was your first case? Heard you got the right person just too late." 

James nodded, knowing his Uncle was throwing out such a line merely to see how he reacted. Perhaps before this case, and before embarking on his new career, he would've risen to it, would've hotly retorted and shown too much of himself. Now, after having once more accustomed himself to repressed sniggers, to rolled eyes and nudges between those who thought he wasn't looking, after open displays of mockery and acts of exclusion, he was able to sit and not allow a muscle to flicker in reaction. The body under control once more; good to know it hadn't forgotten. 

However, he now had something to hand, to demonstrate to Peter that he was willing to ask something too, to throw out a comment merely to see how the other reacted. 

"My Inspector knew someone you worked with." James said in a neutral voice. 

"Oh?" Peter scarcely looked up from attending to his unlit cigarette and taking that first all-important drag on it once lit. James mirrored Peter's actions, taking his time before replying. 

"Yes. When Inspector Lewis was still a Sergeant, his Inspector was Morse. You worked together, didn't you?" 

James knew Morse had passed away some years back; his new Inspector clearly mourned his mentor, compounding his grief at his wife's death, grief which came off him in waves. James would never say such things to Inspector Lewis, just to see his reaction. He was too good for that. Not that Peter was a bad person- somehow, he made James want to say potentially explosive things and he could not explain why. 

He watched Peter carefully; a light smile had touched his thin lips, a slight snort escaped him and James knew that his Uncle could see something right now that he couldn't. 

"Me and Morse worked together, back in the '60s, before I went to London, before I went to Northern Ireland even. A constable from Carshall-fucking-Newtown who came in and became the golden boy. Awkward, arrogant sod."

"You didn't like him?" 

The smile blossomed a shade more. "No. No, I didn't. But- we had an odd relationship. In fact, he was the one into all the books and poetry. Anything you've ever been given by me was indirectly through Morse. They were all his favourite writers. He's the reason I tried to force that bloody opera on you." 

James found himself liking the image of the man which Peter and Lewis were conjuring up for him. He wondered what Morse had looked like. 

"Inspector Lewis told me he was a crossword fanatic." 

Peter shook his head, as if in disbelief at the memory. "Totally gone on them. Couldn't talk to him if he had one in front of him. Ridiculous things that man knew." 

"Did you lose contact with him? Have a falling out?"

It was Peter's turn to pause, sipping on his Scotch and surveying James over the rim of his glass. "No. No, not anything like that. Difficult to put into words, even now."

James tried to run through the various possibilities in his mind as to what could've disturbed their relationship. 

"See, we were together for about a year, and it was always going to be a little difficult after that. Not that we ever called it a relationship, even in our own minds, I'm sure. Couldn't tell anyone about it either, it would've meant the end for both of us on the force. I always intended to leave Oxford anyway, and well, time passes..." 

"Together." James echoed, not even having taken in the words that had come after this. 

"Yes." 

"As in...physically? A physical relationship? You had a physical relationship with him?" 

Peter shook out another cigarette. "I somehow sense that this is not the usual young person's horror at hearing about an oldie's sexual conquests, but rather a more religious objection to the fact that I lay with another man?" 

James had flinched at the phrase "sexual conquest" but otherwise remained still. 

"I never would've picked you as buying into all that." Peter continued. "When you said all that about being influenced by other faiths I somehow imagined you wouldn't be-" Peter took a drag on his cigarette. "-I don't even know what word I'm looking for here. Strict? Unwordly?" He drawled. 

"Do you have a problem with my beliefs?" James challenged. 

"Not at all lad, not at all. But it might be a bit of an issue for you. I doubt you want to spend more time with me, now that you've judged me."

"I'm not judging you." 

"Yes, you have. You may as well have already left the room." 

"How can you tell me about that so...unashamedly?" 

"Because I've had enough shame in my life already and I'm too old to waste any more time on it. Why are you so very ashamed for me? You going to go home now and pray for my soul or something since I'm too gone to do it myself?" 

"Don't mock me." James hissed. 

"I'm not mocking you, I'm trying to ask you what is your problem with this? I've slept with an equal number of women. Does that make it better or worse? You are aware that your cousin's gay? She came out to me a while back, so you might want to avoid her from now on."

"Why do you have to throw it in my face? Why make everything about it a defining statement?" 

"I don't think sexuality or my sexual history defines me and that's not how I'm trying to put it across. But Morse was quite an important person to me and I felt like telling you about him. If I'm going to tell you about him, I can't leave it out."

"Yes, you could've. You told me because you wanted to see how I'd react."

"And if I did? Your reaction has been extraordinary, to say the least." 

James stood up in one abrupt movement, Peter remained sitting. "I have to leave."

"I expect you do." 

James stood uncertainly for a few moments more, waiting for Peter to say something, to make another gesture, to not leave it like this, to give him some reason to yell at him and resolve never to see him again. He was denied this easy escape as the silence continued. 

\----------------------------------------------------

James returned to the almost cloistered silence of his own flat, gratefully locking the door behind him. His night was restless, his sleep light and constantly broken by oppressive dreams; nightmares, rather, filled with over-sharp shafts of sunlight, painfully bright and refracted through large windows, the smell of dust and sun-warmed wood and ancient ivory, the sickening sensation of something solid yet soft pressing insistently, pushing him down. He awoke, choking and had to rush to the bathroom to void his stomach of what little content it contained. He remained in an ungainly heap on the bathroom floor, struggling to rid himself of the taste of the night. It had been so long since he had had that dream, and now it was back. Why had his Uncle's revelation provoked this in him? James had sworn to himself to never react in such a way again; the unacknowledged memory of Will's visit to him surrounded him but he would not allow it to speak. 

He slowly pulled himself into a standing position and supporting himself on the bathroom sink, admitted to himself that whatever the answer might be he was not even strong enough to ask the question of himself.


	5. Functioning

It was not that Peter recognised too much of himself in his nephew- they were utter opposites in many ways. Rather, he perceived a similar pain in James that he had once experienced. The lad had stood there, a scarcely repressed panic shining in his eyes. Peter had been transported back more than forty years, back to a dingy office where he stood face to face with Deare, and he recalled how he had frantically schooled his features into a neutral expression and had got himself out of there as quickly as fucking possible, catapulting himself headlong into the worst bender of his life. He wondered how James was going to deal with the crisis his words appeared to have set off in him. He couldn't pinpoint whether James would run from a like course of action or whether he would also resort to obliterating himself. He had the potential for both in him Peter believed. 

There was little he could do to help him; he would just have to let the boy have his time alone, no matter what damage he might wreak. He knew he would come back. In spite of his reaction, Peter was convinced it was not what he had said that had upset James, it had been something in the lad already which had been unsettled. If that was the precarious state he was in something, sooner or later, would've induced this break. 

Peter poured himself another measure of Scotch, and found his thoughts wandering to Morse. It was all to easy to conjure up the image of that spiky young man, strawberry-blonde head bent over a crossword, brow furrowed, blue eyes focused intently. But if he started with that, it all came back in an unstoppable rush, kisses exchanged, moments snatched as he pushed Morse into an empty hallway, fingertips barely grazing knuckles, the sound of strange music, of trains departing. His memories were not touched by regret- Peter often had to pull himself back from wanting to get in them and lie down, like Dorothy among the poppies in Oz. He would never allow himself to- Morse had had a tendency to fritter away his life in such a maudlin manner. Yet some days he could not resist the warmth that those memories brought- Christ knew he had enough that he wished he could forget. 

He was beginning to suspect that his nephew was trying to flee from his own memories and closely guarded secrets, or rather, master them. Certain suspicions had formed in his mind but for now he would keep them to himself. It was much too early to try and press James on it. He also hoped to hell he was wrong about what was sickeningly nagging at him. 

\----------------------------------------------------

Retirement did not suit Peter Jakes. After less than a year of being a "pensioner" (a term he would bloody well never allow to pass his lips) he found himself restless, easily irritated and much too likely to snap at waitresses and shop assistants. Then he would catch sight of his reflection as he passed a window on the street and grimly understood how he must have appeared to those young people- a grumpy old man. Old age was something which didn't belong to him. He experienced it as an armor tacked on to him, ill-fitting. He struggled to fill his days. Daily the newspaper was consumed thoroughly as he sat down to lunch in a quiet pub. He took in the details of ongoing cases and occasionally forgot his retired status and caught himself making notes about possible avenues to explore on the back of a coaster. 

The idea of pursuing "hobbies" or taking up an allotment was distasteful to Peter- it seemed so very pointless, mindless; he may as well just commit himself to an old folks home if he was going to go down that route. His major indulgence was his love of the cinema and that had been a constant since he was a child. Many films left him cold these days, yet he still went to them, in pursuit of that magical escape it had always provided him with. The stars, for the most part, remained glamorous, which was all he really demanded. His eldest daughter had recently even shown him how to work a DVD player and he was secretly chuffed with this machine, and regularly passed his evenings watching his old favourites, especially anything with Monty Clift. 

He had more time to visit his old friends and family, yet sometimes passed up on this. His daughters, though taking more after their mother, had inherited one trait at least from their father- an almost fanatic need for independence. He did not want to trespass on them too often due to that. They were young and ambitious, making their way in the world. He remembered what that had been like.  
Some days he had idle thoughts about dating again but he dismissed them anew each time they arose. Too set in his ways now, too old- and still missing others who had departed too much. 

It had only been in the past few days that he was able to grudgingly admit to himself that he missed his nephew. Funny how quickly you got used to having someone around. Hearing about life in Cowley Station and the cases he took on had spilled excitement into his routine days, had fed that deep interest which had never fallen entirely dormant. He missed him, sharp edges and all. It had been over two months now since James had stormed out of his flat-there'd been no contact between them. Peter was still confident that eventually the lad would be ready to talk to him again. He was certainly taking his sweet time about it. Peter decided to visit his sister, and by these indirect means, perhaps learn of what his nephew had been doing these past months. 

Sometimes the line between the past and present was so fine as to hardly exist. Peter often felt that strange sense of blurring, or of two images laying on top of one another when he would meet with his sister. She was older than him and yet too often it was not this woman he saw before him but the nineteen year old who had met him when he first managed to get out of those institutions and homes. They had never talked about those years, had never addressed the subject directly. He was never one to allow such a weakness as self-deception in himself- his experience of the world had been too harsh for that luxury. Yet when it came to his sister, he allowed himself to believe that she had not encountered what he had as a child. He could not ask her, would not. This cowardice sickened him when it forced its way into his consciousness. He sought to placate these pangs by reasoning with himself that Sinead was doing fine, more than fine. He feared that his nephew was not. 

"How's James?" Peter asked her once they were settled in the kitchen. 

"Oh, really well. Hardly see him he's so busy. But he's always full of news and stories when I talk to him. I think he's taking to life on the police force." She smiled at Peter. "Runs in the family perhaps." She seemed calm, content- her worries about her son had certainly been stilled. Was that how James had wanted it? Having witnessed the panic and stress his leaving the seminary had caused, had he strategically acted settled and steady to shield his parents? No, not his parents. This had been an act of self-preservation. Those around him were getting too close (and for James it appeared that too close was a great, great distance) and so he had done his best to drive them back. He clearly hadn't mentioned anything of his abrupt exit from his uncle's apartment. Not that Peter had thought of this as likely anyway. Sinead even mentioned how much of a positive impact she felt Peter was having on James. 

"Maybe I should've just stuck to giving him books." He replied but in such a way that she took it as a joke and laughed softly. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

It took another three weeks before James showed up at his apartment. Peter quickly appraised him- he stood stiffly, as if he was focusing on holding this position, wishing to take up as little space as possible but simultaneously hoping to project a lofty confidence. His long body was even leaner than before and his shaved head threw his prominent cheekbones into stark relief. Dark shadows were visible under his eyes. The lad was exhausted. Probably taking on too much at work, compounded then by this constant struggle he waged against himself. 

Peter stood back and welcomed James into the flat. He sat down on the couch but his foot was continuously twitching and he bit compulsively at his thumb. Peter watched his nephew, experiencing a certain alarm at how on edge he was. Usually James would've managed to cover such a raw state and Peter was consumed by a wave of pity for this lonely boy. And what could he offer him? He could talk and listen, give advice certainly. But he would never be capable of providing him with anything more, he couldn't even comfort the lad and he knew without even asking that James would not be capable of accepting as much as a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. James denied himself comfort- even the act of biting his thumb, Peter imagined, had been how he trained himself not to suck it, transforming a child's act of self-soothing into punishment. 

"I came here to apologise." James issued these words in a good imitation of his usual tones. "I am sorry for anything I said, and any offence or hurt it gave you." 

Peter sat in an armchair across from James. No other distractions were on offer for this visit. Something had prevented him from offering his nephew a drink. Whatever would come out of this conversation he felt it would be best if it took place without booze.

"James, I'm glad you came back. There's nothing to forgive- no offence, but your words do not have enough power to hurt me." 

James tilted his head towards his uncle, a deep frown distorting his features. Peter wasn't lying to him, he truly meant what he said. It was only the manner in which James had reacted which had caused him concern. Personally he had been unaffected by anything the lad had said. He was still young and inexperienced enough to believe that everyone around him took what he said as seriously as he did himself, and that they took it the way he intended. 

"The issue isn't really your apologising, though I know your church is very much into the whole forgiveness and penance thing." James set his mouth in a grim line, his face darkening further at these words. "It's rather the attitude you expressed. If still feel as you did before about deviant sexualities," Peter widened his eyes in mock theatricality "well then we're going to have some problems." 

James did not respond straight off, and was clearly working out what he wanted to say. "I don't have a problem with that." He made a vague hand gesture. For someone who held words so very dear this particular omission was quite telling. "What I said came out all wrong and I was also more than a little surprised by the revelation." 

"What, do I not look like what you imagine, all lisping and simpering?"

"No, no, of course not. I would never buy into such crude stereotypes." James retorted shortly. "I think I was disappointed in myself and I tried to blame you for my own lack. There was a time, in the seminary, when I let myself get swept along by the specific and narrow interpretations of the bible that certain individuals and groups follow. Since I left I've been trying to unlearn all that because I know it's wrong. But my knee-jerk reaction showed that I haven't made as much progress as I'd like to think I have."

James fell silent. Peter believed this wasn't the entirety of the issue but he also believed that it was the only aspect the lad even recognised and could give voice to at this point in time. James was attempting to put into words something which he hadn't even clarified to himself yet. James' fingers scrabbled at the sides of his head seeking purchase in the barely there strands, wanting to yank at them. "It's so frustrating when I have this irrational reaction to something I've been working hard on to change." 

"Well, the best way to combat irrationality is to rationalise it out of existence. Reason with it, question it until the irrationality has nowhere to hide. What shocked you- the fact that I'd tell you about my previous partners? That I had them?"

His hands remaining where they were James nodded slowly to the second statement, appearing troubled by this admission. It was such a childlike reaction to be so very unsettled by change, expecting those around him to conform to the roles he expected. That could be a huge obstacle in his career. This inability to cope with unexpected revelations in even his family members made James' apparent lack of friends more comprehendable. It also raised the question as to what had brought about this great need for sameness and predictability in those around him. Oddly enough, it would also serve to make him a good police officer- the flip side of such a demand for transparency would be constant distrust of appearances. He could see James working near obsessively on a case so as to put all the facts in order, demystify the motives and ascribe the correct roles to those involved. He could already foresee over-work being James' main vice. His DI should be on the watch for that. 

James seemed to do battle so intensely with these two parts of himself, the one side which could entertain complex ideas and vast landscapes of thought, quietly tolerant but always interrogating, and the other side which was rigid, inflexible and seemingly unnerved by any uncertainty. The two met like cold and hot and James, in his current state, was the steam which emerged from this. Small wonder he looked so worn out. The energy it must take to place such demands on himself and to be all the while disappointed in himself for not meeting these contradicting standards. Of course James found such comfort in his God- he had partially shaped his conception of him, and he would never unsettle him by revealing any all too human weaknesses. It was as though he had been arrested in childhood somewhere and James was forced to drag this child version of himself along with him, the adult hampered and maimed by the panicky boy still in him. Peter understood all too well such a split. It had taken him over fifteen years to even acknowledge the Little Pete who would take over his rational self, and even longer to stop rejecting him, and instead learn how to deal with him and quieten him. He had never been able to like this ugly reminder of his childhood. Little Pete was the label he gave to all his feelings of being out of control and destructive. Little Pete was when unstoppable memories assaulted him and he had to swallow down huge panic; it was the voice in him which repeated "I can't, I can't" over and over He'd taught himself to view this Little Pete as something separate from him, and when he threatened to take over he'd visualise himself picking up his small self and setting him down somewhere safe, and telling him to go off and play and not to bother him. 

Perhaps Peter was then wrong to try and help James with this by way of reason. Reason could only appeal to the adult in James and it was clear that this adult was not always in control. How was he to reason with a child? James would listen and see the validity in what he was saying and would then only be further disappointed in himself when he couldn't apply this logic. The appeal should be made rather to feelings, sensations. That was all Peter himself could remember about being in Blenheim Vale- not words. Words had been blanked out by what had happened there. He changed tack. 

"James, was it that you felt it was somehow 'bad' of me?" Peter asked.

"Bad? No, it doesn't make you bad in itself..." James began but was cut off again. 

"I don't mean inherently bad. Did you perhaps think I'd been unfaithful to my wife or had lied to others, had treated others unfairly? I never did anything like that. I was never unfaithful to your Aunt, and when Morse died I told your cousin about exactly what he had been to me. My inclinations have never hurt anyone." 

Peter found himself reaching repeatedly for words such as 'bad', 'hurt' or 'unfair'. He felt they would be easier understood by the more childish part of James which currently seemed to have taken possession of him. Indeed, the words Peter chose appeared to be having a calming effect on the lad- his fingers untwisted themselves, and he resumed biting his thumb for a while before finally allowing his hands to fall quiet in his lap. 

"Perhaps that was it." James said in a low voice. "I think it's the traces of the seminary still in me- they don't even acknowledge sexuality outside of marriage, let alone entertain thoughts of an alternative to heterosexuality. Admittedly, I'm a little unworldy. It was a shock." James gave a small, bitter-sounding snort. "Somewhat humiliating to have to admit. I just didn't know how to process what you told me. I'm sorry." 

Peter waved away the apology. "Drink?" He now felt able to offer. 

James let out a deep sigh. "Oh, please."

As he was pouring out a measure of Scotch, he asked, "Do they really not talk about this at the seminary? Sex, I mean. I would've thought that they'd have to bring it up, particularly with novices."

James swigged from his glass, clearly not wanting to answer Peter's question. He shrugged and made a face. "That wasn't really the worst part. The worst part was, that at times, being in that strange little world seemed more suited to me than the so-called real world. I suppose that is in me, the tendency to want to find quietness in books and meditation. I think it made me want to be a police officer, in spite of myself. To force myself to deal with the realities of daily life as it is lived instead of devoting myself to pure scholarship. It's harder, but better to make a connection between religion and the people and the world it applies to." 

The lad was at least willing to engage with reality, as he so termed it, even though he seemed to be oblivious to the fact that he was not living this dictate out when it came to his personal life. Peter didn't push it. He raised his glass slightly to James. "I think that's a fine motivation. Better than most." 

A smile flickered on James' face, tentatively. 

Dark was beginning to settle, the room about them falling into a slight murkiness, an absence of light not yet covered by definite darkness. Peter made no move to turn on the main light but instead flicked on a lamp next to him, creating a warm pool of light. 

"If you'd like," James began. "could you tell me about Morse? I mean, you and Morse." 

Peter nodded, indicated to him to refill their glasses and went out of the room briefly. He returned with a small wooden box and sat beside James. He began telling him about how he'd walked in on Morse singing some opera-nonsense or other to himself and how this, oddly, had signaled their growing closer and how it had culminated in their first kiss on the White Horse. As he ran out of words, unable to tell James more about Morse without being forced to talk about Blenheim Vale and Deare, Peter opened the box and handed his nephew photos, the few he had held onto over the decades. There was Sergeant Jakes, black and white particularly suited to his features and style; there was Morse, a picture kept from a newspaper clipping, eyes wide open, lacking their vibrant blue (Morse's was a face more suited to colour photos), hair and shirt equally rumpled, his figure slight but the mouth determined. Other faces appeared too- there was Joanie, and Christ, did it hurt to see her sparky smile looking up at him. His sister before she'd married. His own wife, in her nurse's uniform, his daughters. James gazed at each photo handed to him and smiled at the stories his uncle told him. He gathered up the little pictures and carefully put them away again. 

"Ach, sometimes it's bloody hard to see face of people who aren't around anymore."

Night had nearly fully crept in and James prepared to leave. As he was shrugging into his coat, Peter wondered if the evening had been good or bad. Certainly, they'd cleared the air and talked a lot but what did that mean? It had no value if James was simply going to return to Oxford and continue doing precisely whatever he had been doing to himself before. It couldn't go on indefinitely, Peter was sharply aware of that. The best he could do was to be there when that day came. He didn't believe himself that he could do anything to prevent it from happening. A memory seared through him of attempting to stand up and follow Morse out of the pub, only for his legs to give way under him, the alcohol and the past unraveling the iron-hold he had had over himself. 

Just before James was fully out the door, Peter called his name. "You know it can't go on like this always. You can't keep it at bay forever." 

James stood in the doorway, hand on the latch. "I function." 

"Yeah, and you'll function right up until the moment when you don't anymore."

"Well, that's what I intend to do."


	6. David and Jonathan

In his university days, James had once read a definition of "dirt" and this definition had shadowed him from the moment he'd seen Will McEwan's body in the church, and remained with him as he was confined to his hospital bed. Dirt was nothing more than something out of place. Dirt was something which was present where it shouldn't be. Will's body shouldn't have been lying like that in the church. Blood on the altar. There should have been no beauty left in his features, the ugliness and wrongness of his death should've stolen that away. James had experienced an involuntary reminder of the attraction Will had held for him. Running from the church had been the result of the reawakening in him of a hard-trained reaction- to not look. He had never allowed himself to turn his gaze upon Will once he realised he took pleasure in his appearance. When Will had come to him for advice he was not even able to make himself raise his eyes to meet his. Perhaps if he had done so, in spite of his own weakness, he would've perceived the depth of pain in the other man and wouldn't have given him the answer that he had. He couldn't look at Will lying there in the church, too aware that he could not return this intrusive gaze. James himself chafed at being subjected to the eyes of others. This had been his last act of respect to Will. Or cowardice. Both? 

His head was groggy, a vast swirling grey landscape which he held no control over. It was as if the fire and explosion had not just licked at his body but had also seared through his mind, crumbling doors into ash, charring the ground and allowing the underneath to be exposed. His dreams had grown monstrous, made harsher by the antiseptic surroundings of the hospital. Images of Will- young, then dead, dead, then young, were spliced in with scenes from a summer day, seated at a piano, somehow seguing into the softness of Zoe's caresses, who somehow became Will once again. He awoke, nauseous and with an insistent swelling between his legs which drove him so close to the act of finding some sharp implement and attacking this part of himself. It was alien to him, a piece of him that he tried to ignore but acted apart from him, like an awful creature swelling with angry breaths. 

He had to get out of this place; he was constantly on view, and apparently, all these doctors and nurses had a right to do this to him. One of his greatest fears was to be committed to a mental asylum, prison or anywhere others were permitted to handle him on the orders of others. In spite of too often not understanding his body or being unable to find any connection between it and the self he vaguely imagined himself to be, he experienced the heaviness of knowing how reliant he was upon it. He needed it to be capable of moving, running, being independent. On sleepless nights- and there had been many of those- impossible choices ran through his mind, a constant one he always gnawed at was this particular conundrum: would he rather lose all his mental capacity and remain physically able or would he choose to be fully physically incapacitated but still in possession of his mental faculties? His inability to make a definitive choice, betraying his dependency on this flawed mortal shell, frustrated him. 

His exposure seemed total and continuous. The hospital gowns were simply degrading and ridiculous. In spite of all the folds of material they hardly covered anything. Waking up in the hospital, having lost time, unsure of exactly how he had ended up where he was, he knew that someone else must have removed his clothes, tended to his injuries and then dressed him again. This meant someone had examined his skin, checking for any damage done by the fire and instead, had found evidence of older wounds, a mixture of faded white lines and raised pink slits, neatly made- even in an act such as this, James was nothing if not methodical. He'd had enough presence of mind to keep his arms hidden from Lewis when he'd come to visit him. Unfortunately, he still hadn't recovered sufficient control over himself to do the same when his uncle had come to visit him. Though he had said nothing, James knew that Peter had not let those marks escape his notice. In a way, this worried him more- Peter had the tendency to store information and to use it at a time when it was to the best of its advantage. Lewis was the opposite of that- acting in the moment, ruled by his compassion, and also his temper. That had been the first time he'd truly experienced this side of his DI. James knew that their relationship, working or otherwise, had been permanently altered by how he had acted. It had come to him with a queasy jolt during the darkest hour, when even the hospital was quieter than his own mind- he had hurt Lewis. Having considered James his equal, and imagining them to be friends, he felt that this had been exposed as a lie. Distance had sprung up between them since that night and Lewis was too kind (and perhaps even a touch too proud) to press his Sergeant about what in the bloody hell had happened. They would pretend- Lewis would even believe himself that he'd forgiven James and that they were as they had been before. And the one thing he was unable to offer Lewis was a proper explanation. For the first time in years beyond number it hurt to know that someone had taken a step away from him. A year ago he hadn't known Lewis. Now he had to somehow patch up over the deceptions that had been partially revealed and left fully unexplained. 

Still, he was glad Lewis hadn't been the one to see his bare arms, and that if it had to be someone that it was his uncle. This was not to say he felt himself closer to Peter. Rather, his acceptance of Peter's presence in his life unsettled him. They were too alike in some ways and he was certain that this accounted for the affinity which had strangely grown between them. If Peter hadn't been related to him he couldn't imagine having much to do with him. Life would've been very different indeed if Peter had been his DI and Lewis his uncle. No. He could not allow such silly conjectures to run riot in his head. Never did anyone any good. Also, it was unfair to Peter- it wasn't as if he'd asked to have a nephew like him. 

Peter's presence, however, had not been unwelcome. Waking up to see his uncle standing with his back to the window, hair and attire immaculate as ever, playing with a lighter, indicated to James more than any doctor's report that no drastic or permanent damage had been done to him.  
He just needed to get out of this place and be on his own in his flat, only until he had sorted out the broken film of his mind. Right now, in his present condition, it was just to dangerous to be around others. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------

When Peter turned up outside his flat a week after James had been discharged from hospital, they were both a little surprised- James because he had not been expecting Peter to make the trip down again so soon, and Peter because James had on highlighter coloured gloves. 

"Spring-cleaning." He offered by way of an explanation. 

"It's not spring." Peter arched an eyebrow at him. 

"Well, not all of us can afford hired help." 

He couldn't explain to his uncle that he had been engaged repeatedly, daily, in such tasks. Coming back to his apartment had not helped as much as he'd believed it would in wrestling his thoughts back under control. It was as if a glass full of water had shattered and not only had he to put the receptacle back together, but he also had to preserve the water and contain it somehow. Failing to place a muzzle on his thoughts, he sought another alternative and this was to empty his mind, by directing all his energies towards meaningless tasks. If he could somehow rid himself of these unwanted intrusions, he would then be able to regain his usual strength in screening what he allowed to take up space in his mind. This aim had yet to be accomplished- so far he had reached a state of blankness induced by exhaustion. Work helped as well. Wine too, but only in large amounts. 

"Brought you a book, was thinking you might want something." Peter handed him the telltale bag from Blackwells. James reached inside- William Golding's "To The Ends of the Earth" trilogy. 

"Any particular reason you got me this?"

"No. Morse liked it, that's all I know. And it's long. Why? Should I not have?"

"No, no, never mind. Thank you." Of course, Peter didn't know. He wasn't trying to say anything with the book. He already felt on the back foot and it was nothing his uncle had done, rather his mind in wanting to defend itself had turned on itself instead, like a snake gnawing on its own tail. 

"What brings you to Oxford? Surely not just the bookshops?" James glanced at his watch as he said this- was it too early in the day to offer Peter a drink? He had a need for one himself but would only partake if the other man did too. 

"Coffee?" He offered. 

"Please." Peter sank into a chair, lighting up a cigarette. 

As James prepared the coffee, he attempted to map out what Peter was potentially going to say and ask, and what steps he could take in order to take control of the direction of the conversation. The more salacious details of the case were still all over the papers, of course, and they'd had a field day over a Sergeant being involved in it all. It'd been so long since they'd seen one another, not counting the hospital visit. Ever since their last proper talk he had avoided meeting his uncle, unnerved by his parting sentence to him, and even more so in realising how much he had meant the response he had given to his uncle. 

Only after he had fixed Peter's coffee with plenty of milk and sugar (James winced at this display as he set his own unadulterated black coffee beside it), only then did Peter begin:

"So, you've decided to give no thought to your career at all then?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do I mean? I'm amazed your DI Lewis hasn't chewed you out several times over for this already. The way you handled everything in this case, James. Look, I have no interest in interfering in your private life, that is not my affair. But bloody hell lad, when I see you trampling over your career so recklessly I have to say something. This can't go on. Personal and professional lives have to be kept separate. To do that you have to be in control of yourself and you are not in control of anything right now, least of all yourself. Sort it out, James, just sort it out either way." 

James tightened his grip on the coffee mug so that a light burning sensation ran along his palm. In working on purging unwelcome thoughts from his own mind he had been unable to totally avoid the knowledge that those around him were not following a like course of action. The whispers had got louder and he was aware he had become a figure of mockery to most. For some, he was even a figure to be reviled. If Innocent and Lewis hadn't made such a public show of their continued faith in him, he knew his situation would be a lot worse. However, as it was, it was barely contained. 

"Lewis and Innocent have not changed their opinion of me, in a professional capacity." He replied. "As for the rest, well, that's just gossip. As long as others will work with me, I don't ask for anything more."

Peter exhaled, his frustration apparent. "Well, it is at least something that you've your superior's confidence. But are you sure this is how you want your life in the work place? To be a figure who is merely tolerated because he's good at his job?" 

James smiled tiredly. "Did you know there are white starlings occasionally?" 

"You what?" Peter was in the process of lighting another cigarette. "You mean those dark speckled birds that make a huge racket and hang about in droves?"

"That's them, yes. Do you know what they do to those albino starlings? They attack them, chase them, drive them to the edge of the group. They have to learn other ways of surviving without the group. Sometimes I feel humanity as a whole hasn't progressed much beyond such animal behaviour. That's why the comments of the PCs don't bother me. It's always been like this. And why should I care about the twitterings of a flock of birds?"

"Well, that's noble and all James, but would it hurt for the white starling to dye its feathers dark every so often just so they can get ahead?"

He didn't answer his uncle, the words sticking in his throat- even if he did dye his feathers, they'd still know. He was marked and that was just how things were.  
There was a pause before Peter said: "You went to the funeral." 

James nodded. 

"How was it?" 

To put off answering, James brought the mug to his lips. The bitter liquid sat uneasily in his empty stomach. 

"It was too hard." He said quietly. "I sat there and I couldn't stop remembering Will as I last saw him, his body...and though the prayers have meaning for me, I couldn't forget about how it made Will feel. It was just too much." 

"What happened James? Nothing I've heard makes much sense."

James shook his head repeatedly, miserably; he was not saying no to Peter's question but to the sensations it had awakened. 

"Can't you just read about it in the papers or get the gossip from your former cronies down the station?" 

"No. I want to hear from you what really went on. Because from the outside it looks incomprehensible."

"Not much different on the inside, I'm afraid."

"Try me."

"When...when did you first know," James slowly formed his question. "about who you were attracted to?" 

"Do you mean just in general or are you asking specifically after one gender here?"

"Both?"

Peter took a long drag on his cigarette, looking off at a spot somewhere over James' shoulder. 

"Surprising though it may seem, I was a bit of a late starter in that area. Places where I was weren't conducive to teenage crushes or first kisses. It was really only once I got out, so I suppose we're talking seventeen, eighteen. It was also something no-one ever talked to us about, you have to keep that in mind. Things are different nowadays, I imagine, sex-ed and all that. But for me, it all started in the cinema, which was quite nice really, sitting in the dark, able to look at the screen without worrying about others catching you out, no need for you to form a response. That was when I first experienced- not attraction but more a physical reaction. I'd found people attractive before but this was the first time I'd properly linked attraction to desire, a want for contact. It was my affair, private, secret. It didn't bother me I suppose because I didn't tell anyone, couldn't. Found clubs to go to in London, and well..." He seemed to want to continue, to say more on the subject. He instead lit another cigarette, falling silent. He turned his gaze on James briefly, indicating that he was expecting some sort of response or at least something which would continue their conversation. 

He envied his uncle for being able to stare his desires in the face and simply take care of them, not needing to let his privacy be compromised. There were countless questions welling up in him, begging to be given voice to. How did you know that what you felt wouldn't turn out to be uncontrollable in the act? How do you tell the person you're with what you don't like doing? How do you separate a sensation felt in the moment from a memory of a sensation felt at another time? Can you want to touch someone romantically but not sexually? What's wrong with me? 

James kept his mouth firmly shut, biting fiercely down on his bottom lip, the pain helping him to reign himself back in. He was always anxious that one day his thoughts would just spill out of him involuntarily. He knew however, that Peter was expecting some kind of admission similar to that one he had just made. 

"Well." James' lip twitched at how this would sound to his uncle. "To be completely honest, for me, it was a scene in the bible."

Peter cocked an eyebrow at him. 

"Oh, I am being entirely serious." James assured him. 

"Of course you are. Of course you did." The look of mild amusement on his face allowed James for the first time to view this event from his adolescence with any sort of objectivity. Perhaps it was kind of funny, the idea of this boy getting hot and bothered by the bible. 

"Certain amount of irony, I suppose." Though not quite able to laugh at his younger self, he at least had a new-found sense of indulgence for that strange boy. "You know the story of David and Goliath?" Peter nodded, still smiling faintly around his cigarette. "There were some rather unexpected passages about him and Jonathan, son of King Saul. Jonathan talks about how his soul is knit with the soul of David, and how he loves David as his own soul. David and Jonathan found their love passing that of woman."

James could still remember stumbling on those words, stopping and rereading them, panicking someone would hear his quickened breath or would look over his shoulder and see the burning words he was reading. 

"I was excited. I didn't have the vocabulary to explain even to myself just what that meant. What exactly were David and Jonathan getting up to? The bible is a bit hazy on that. It fired my imagination however. I was fixated on the idea of these two men and the strength of their attachment."

He left out certain aspects of this discovery. How he had been so frightened by this involuntary assault of feeling and sensation, how out of control he felt himself to be. The bible for a period, usually his refuge, failed him, instead bringing with it that which he sought every day to hide and forget. The fixation- obsession- in spite of himself scared him too. This did not fit the idea of himself he had created. If he could get this preoccupied by something he could not tame or contain, who knew where it would end? His nights back then became a torment, filled with sickly dreams, seductive and suffocating. He'd somehow adjusted to it, not telling anyone, working hard, slowly returning to prayer. It became a dull ache, instead of an active jammering. It was the aftermath of a blow, a bruise which he hoped would fade. 

Perhaps it would've if it could've remained understood in reference to David and Jonathan. But this unfortunately had not been the case.  
James shifted in his seat, wanting to close his eyes against the image which came to mind. But he knew, for all that his uncle was decent and not at all malicious, he knew he would seize upon such a gesture. Also, it was completely illogical, foolish even, to believe that closing his eyes would in any way blank out the picture of Will McEwan. 

He swallowed before speaking, not wanting to stutter or trip up on the name as he pronounced it. "I met Will then, Will McEwan."

There were things he would never tell his uncle- not because he distrusted him or because he was ashamed. No. Certain memories he had of his friendship with Will were for him and him alone. They were now the one thing left to him after this case. They were altogether too precious to be handed over to someone else. 

"Will was my first proper friend, I suppose you could say. You can imagine that I wasn't exactly the most popular boy in school." 

Will had been the first person he had met who had actively sought out his company. He didn't think he was odd or a know-it-all. Rather, he always wanted to hear the things James told him, and would give him his full attention. It had always been like that between them- James would tell him things, Will would show him things, would drag him off 'exploring' somewhere. He bit down harder on his lip, finally, the tang of blood came horribly sharp on his tongue. Yes, even when they were supposedly grown up James was still the one telling Will things, as if he had any authority to be giving Will advice. And poor Will, so used to the pattern of their old friendship had come to him to hear what James could tell him. 

"He was just..." James faltered, running his fingertips over his lips, wiping away any stray blood. "I liked looking at him, I wanted to look at him, but I couldn't."

"Why not?" 

"It's not fair to look at another person like that. I mean, Will could've not wanted to be looked at like that."

"He could've- but he did? By you? Did he look at you the same way?"

"He came to me, and told me that he was gay. And I laughed in his face."

James had hunched his shoulders and could only enunciate these words to the bare wooden floor. "I thought it was a trap, to lure me."

"A trap? How so?" 

"I don't know exactly. I just instantly had the sense of being under attack, as if this was a test and that there were eyes upon us. So instead of giving him any proper answer, such as yes or no, or I like you too, I laughed."

"Sometimes," Peter had shifted forward and James knew he was attempting to catch his eye. He refused to look up as his uncle continued. "Sometimes, when we're offered the thing we want most, we get scared, and retreat, a misplaced act of self-defence. Wanting something, and showing that you want it, makes you vulnerable."

"And by doing that, I hurt him. I affected his life in the worst way possible. I can't ever make it better, I can't right that wrong."

"No. But you can salvage something from the situation by making things better for yourself."

James gave a mirthless laugh. "I can never make that better either. I just have to live with it."

Living with it was what he said to Peter. However, he sometimes believed he had died a long time ago.


	7. Ragdoll

After all this time, the cases which remained with Peter were the ones which had had young children as their victims. There had been many cases over the years, and too many murders; yet, certain images of a small body clad in white, her limbs in an unnatural heap, or the moment of opening a coffin and expecting to find a young girl dead inside it- these were the pictures which never faded, never lost their unforgiving sharp focus. He didn't even remember his dreams the way he remembered these particular cases. Dreams and their contents had always dissolved immediately upon waking. Certainly, he had dreams. However, he no longer woke up on the floor as he used to on occasion, and it was a long time indeed since someone had slept beside him, so there was no one to shake him out of the visions that had a grip on him. Now and then he jerked out of slumber, sweating, choking, and knew he'd been dreaming. Of what, he could not recall, but he knew anyway.

Going by his appearance, James had dreams too, but was not granted the mercy of remaining ignorant of their contents. That was, if the lad was sleeping properly at all. Peter didn't want James' face to join that gallery, the gallery of those children he couldn't help. Yes, James was a grown man, however he couldn't stop himself from seeing only a boy in front of him. The figure which had lain huddled under the thin hospital bed sheets had appeared absurdly young to him. Sitting across from his nephew, he had been unable to smoke, waiting for him to come to, his mind churning away, his thinking clear and almost clinical in its assessments. Well, someone had to be in this situation, otherwise he wouldn't be much help to James. Too many questions had been thrown up by the Will McEwan case and Peter was certain that the repercussions had not even fully yet begun. The night he'd received a call from the hospital, informing him of his nephew's condition. During the drive to Oxford he'd been preoccupied with the newly learnt information that, no, James Hathaway did not have his mother or father listed as his next-of-kin, but rather one Peter Jakes. He had a need to validate this gesture of trust, but at the same time, remained aware that any overt reference to it would cause James to retreat even further. The lad was always at war with himself, wanting so much and unable to accept anything. 

The scars had been alarming. Peter couldn't even pretend to comprehend such a habit. (For it was clearly a habit and a long-standing one at that.) The idea of turning on yourself and attacking your body was disgusting, if he was completely honest with himself. He did not mean that his nephew disgusted him- the action did. However, he felt himself unable to broach the topic with James. The lad had not chosen to share this information with him. He had only seen the evidence of this activity in a moment when James had been unconscious, unable to defend himself. He had seen it without James' permission. It was too easy to predict how he would react if his uncle sought to talk to him about it. When he and Morse had slept together for the first time, Peter had lain beside him in the narrow bed, and on feeling Morse's hands stroking down his back, he had tensed, knowing the other man could see the pink and white scars from the vicious caning Deare had subjected him to. In spite of Morse's kind reaction (or because of it), Peter had been nearly overwhelmed by a wave of conflicting sensations. And for James, who was such a stranger to his own body in a way Peter had never suffered from, reference to these scars, no matter how well-intended, would likely pitch him further into the crisis he seemed unable to free himself from. 

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Late night phone calls were something Peter had come to dread in recent years. Earlier in his life, in his career, if the phone rang after midnight it usually turned out to be an emergency call-out, or a drunken lover (ex-, or otherwise) who had decided to contact him. Mild annoyances really, in the grand scheme of things. Now though, the shrill tones of a phone shattering his silent surroundings caused him to brace himself for the worst before he picked up the receiver or pressed the answer button on his mobile. Such calls had informed him of his mum's passing, Max's death, then Joanie. These days, his first thought was for his daughters, and his sister. There was no one else left. The past couple of years however, he had begun to expect a late night phone call telling him of something which had happened to his nephew. He could still recall his confusion as he'd reached for the phone, and how he'd tried to understand sentences about James being in hospital, explosions, burns, drugs. 

His mobile rang incessantly tonight, vibrating furiously at the same time. Peter eyed it blearily, experiencing an irrational desire to chuck the thing out the window. Instead, he picked it up and put it to his ear. It was no use trying to run away from such demands and claims. 

"Hello?" He grumbled into the phone. There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end, followed by a muttered curse.

"...James?" 

"Yes, unfortunately. Look, I apologize, I just saw what time it is and I realise I shouldn't have called. I hope I didn't disturb you too much."

"No, James, James, you've woken me up now, c'mon, stay a bit. Is there anything-" Peter wanted to avoid the phrasing "wrong", knowing James would flinch from it. "...eh, anything happening?" 

"Just a case." James fell silent, clearly struggling for words. Peter didn't press him, instead saying, "Here, give us a chance to get a cigarette lit and then I'll be able to listen." As he shook out a cigarette and lit it up, he listened to the irregular breathing on the other end of the line. Needed some time to gather his thoughts, he supposed. Small talk wouldn't be any help. Both he and James had little time for such prattle- although he suspected that even when pressed to supply bits of idle chat if necessary his nephew still wouldn't be much good at it. Peter, on the other hand, was well able to talk meaningless shite with the best of them, when it was needed. It was a skill he learnt as he made his way up the ranks. He was able to do it; he just disliked it. His and James' relationship had never really allowed for much bullshitting. Anytime they talked there was a purpose, whether it was external circumstances or an issue which eventually ended up remaining unacknowledged. But it was there, palpably so, underpinning their every word. 

Peter couldn't decide whether such a phone call meant James was attempting to create further distance between them or whether it implied the opposite. Perhaps he found it easier to talk on the phone. Having your ear pressed up against this object, unable to see the person you're conversing with- could be that it was not unlike confession for James. 

Peter exhaled, and as he reached over for an ashtray on his bedside table, he heard the noise of liquid being poured into a glass. He wondered how much James had had to drink already- and, indeed, if his consumption had increased in recent months. Something had altered in him since the Will McEwan and Feardorcha case. 

"I have to give evidence in a trial. I found the body." James was using his overly even and dead straight voice. Not to mask any drunkenness. This was the tone he used, Peter had come to recognise, when he was worried his emotions would get the better of him and would prevent him from speaking and making himself understood. It was always so vitally important to the lad to express himself in the precisely correct manner he favoured. It had been a couple of years since his and James' first proper talk, sitting outside The Trout, and in spite of themselves, they had come to know each other well. 

"Which case?" He listened as James hastily swallowed from his drink. Whiskey or wine, Peter wondered. 

"The Zelinsky case." 

"I read about that in the paper. Well, to be completely honest, forced myself to read it." 

"Peter, how did you deal with cases like this? With children? She was only a child, she was so tiny, so light, it was like trying to hold together an egg with a crack running through it. And I have to get up and somehow give cold hard evidence about this. I don't think even God can give me enough strength for this."

"You found her, you said?"

"Yes, and it was all wrong, everything was wrong, her bones were just..." He broke off; another swig. 

"James, listen to me. What you're feeling right now, the horror, the anger, disgust, all of that- that's what makes you a good detective. It won't help much in your career, to be honest with you, but it stands to you in other ways. You can make a choice. You can hold onto that feeling and keep it with you for other cases like this, and there will be other cases like this, prepare yourself for that right now. Or you can stop it, turn it off. Ignore the bullshit people say about it, you can will yourself to turn off your feelings about this. View them as you would any other case you deal with."

"You can't, you can't just flick a switch and stifle reactions like that. It's not human." 

"It's very human. You can get used to anything. That's our strength, and our biggest problem, as human beings. The cases involving children were the ones that always fucked me up James, would take me days to recover, particularly back when I was a Sergeant. I learnt somehow to cut off those feelings you're having at the moment. Made me a worse detective, worse person too probably, but a better officer if you get me. I got promoted, and promoted again and eventually I was in a position on the force where I didn't have much contact with cases anymore, directly. Victims became an abstract."

"That's...that's horrific." James said hoarsely. 

"No, it was self-preservation. I think you understand that all too well. And there's always something ugly about it, about survival. It warps you. You'll be surprised at what you become capable of doing just to get through." Peter turned his head, gazing at the drawn curtains and the muted, artificial light from the street invading his bedroom. "But don't think for a moment that I haven't been disappointed with myself for the choice I made. But I made it, and I have to live with it. Morse was like you, and he kept that sense of..." Peter faltered for a moment. Why was he telling James all this? Perhaps because when it came down to it, this would be the only advice he would ever give him directly, would ever dare to give him. "Morse placed demands on those around him, on the world at large, to reach certain standards, and demanded for them to be held accountable when they didn't. You have something similar." 

"And according to you it's a bit of a handicap for getting on." 

"Depends on what you see getting on as. I can't seriously imagine you want a position like mine, Chief Superintendent."

"Not really, no. But then why did you want it so badly?"

"Because I wanted to be in a powerful position. That's always come first. Secondly, better for me to have the position than fuck knows who. You've been on the force for a few years now, James. You must've encountered some of the specimens who choose this as their career. I don't do much to help- I'm not that deluded behind my paperwork, but I'm at least a neutral, fair presence, and that's an improvement on what's been there before."

"You mean corruption."

"That too, and worse. Much worse." Peter smoothed his free hand over his hair, tamping it down. His fingers closed around his cigarette packet, the familiar shape and feel of the paper and foil, the rounded tips of the cigarettes themselves grounding him. "Have you ever heard of Blenheim Vale?" Even after all this time, those words were tough to pronounce. He never shortened the name, even in his head. He was compelled to this, convinced that leaving out any syllable would be to make light of all that it represented to him and the others who had been there. 

"No. What is it?"

""Was a home for wayward boys. Ostensibly held up as a great charity bestowed on those less fortunate. The reality was that it was an old boy's club, and they had the power of a very high up officer indeed behind them. Could make any story disappear, make any child disappear that was a potential threat. It was their playground. There were so many cover-ups."

"Did you work on this case?" 

Peter gave a mirthless bark of laughter. "I was there as a kid. Wasn't there for a long time but I swapped one institution for another until I was old enough to leave. But while I was in Blenheim Vale I got the full impact of having to be a pawn in their games." The remembered sensation of their interrogation crashed over him. 

"What do you mean?" James' voice had taken on a confused edge, higher, tense. 

"They used me. I was their plaything, when they felt like it. They liked young kids, you see, and being in charge of a boy's school, where most of us were orphans or just abandoned, or even petty criminals, there were no families for us to run and tell tales to."  
Peter looked down at his cigarette and noted how it had burned itself down to mostly ash, but was still holding itself together somehow, the bright red glow visible underneath, and all too close to his knuckles. He gave that one up, allowing it to crumble into a grey pile in the ashtray, and set about lighting up a new one as he waited for James to respond. What he was expecting from his nephew, he didn't know. Something, anything. He was quite aware that he was goading James, pressing him, and that he was doing this because of the knowledge that he would not react unless backed into a corner. Otherwise they would continue to do this dance, James cracking at irregular intervals, managing to patch himself up enough to appear fine and continue on, only for the damage to run deeper and deeper. Ever since Will McEwan's suicide it was as if the lad was drifting further away, constructing a place not to be reached by anyone, where only his own logic ruled. The Garden and Feardorcha had threatened James' defences in a way that even his crisis of faith hadn't managed to shake. It was likely that precisely because of his renewed faith that everything had become more incomprehensible. Peter was sure that no matter what, James would've developed a powerful attachment to religion; it was just part of what made him who he was. It would be crass and insulting to suggest that the boy had only turned to it as a result of what may or may not have happened in his life. A few years back, however, James could've blamed any uncertainties, or even fears he was having, on the fact that he had lost his faith, temporary though it may have been. Would've been easy to claim that losing your major orientation in life had left you a bit unsure, even frightened. Having to confront Will McEwan, and now Zelinsky, with his God firmly reinstated meant he would be forced to go deeper to find an explanation or understanding as to just what in these cases seemed to threaten the fabric of his being. 

"But..." James began. "You don't look like it."

"I don't look like what?" Peter left the word unsaid. Victim. No, he fucking did not look like a victim and he never had. What did a victim look like? Scarcely would he even allow himself to think of the word in reference to himself. You either got on, or you died, whether by your own hand, or by enacting a living death through the mouth of a dummy. If you didn't get on with it, it would catch up on you, and swallow you whole. He knew he'd sound a right bastard if he were to ever say any of this out loud, and he knew that yes, there were those who needed these words, this survivor talk, that it helped them to some degree to put the past behind them. He also knew that some others were just not capable of continuing on. Thinking about that always made him twitchy. What was the difference then between him and those who had crumpled, those who had been left not able to function? Why had he managed to scrape through and others hadn't? This placed him so close to them, and it terrified him, the idea that only a thin, thin line had separated him from a similar fate. 

Being around children was hard for him due to this. He didn't hate them, or have too little time for them. Yet even with his own two daughters, it had only been when they reached their teenage years that he could first allow himself to engage with them. Work had been a good excuse to fall back on, and he simply made sure he wasn't present too much. Being around children, small children, was unbearable- he was so scared for them, and couldn't communicate this to them, much less the reason why he was gripped by this fear. He would see children- at home, brought into the station, messing about on the street- and he wanted to be harsh to them, to teach them not to trust those in power unquestioningly, to learn to rely on themselves. If only someone had done that for him- he had had to learn the hard way.  
Children made him remember Little Pete, and this brought home in the most awful, visceral way the true nature of what had been done to him in Blenheim Vale. To see how tiny a ten year old was, how skinny and breakable, a mere ragdoll, how open and trusting, to see this was to understand that he had been this same figure, he too had been this child. It turned his stomach when he thought about these children he saw around him being subjected to the same fate as him. 

Only recently had something even worse developed. He would look at his nephew, and in him, he had to recognise what he had been at that age, how close to being that he had come. To look at James was to bear witness to how that child survived to adulthood. It was to see how a strange contradiction was painfully held in one person- in James, this childhood self was fiercely, fiercely denied but simultaneously was all too evident. 

Yes, tonight's phone call had only confirmed what Peter could no longer allow himself to doubt, or to dismiss as his own imagination over-reacting. Who had it been? The most obvious choice in James' case was a member of the church, or even another member of the congregation. Someone from the estate he'd lived on for a few years? A teacher? A family member? It had to be considered, for it was a possibility. A random attack? He hadn't the faintest idea. 

One thing he was certain of- he couldn't help James. He would always be ready to listen to the lad and try and do his best to intervene. How could he attempt to help James beyond that, he who could so little help himself? Sure, he'd got through, climbed the career ladder, had a wife, had two daughters. Yet he was always faintly aware of a lack within himself. This lack had arisen from his continual denial of what had happened. Disconnection to these events led to him being able to perceive them only as a numbness, a gap. For Christ's sake, his own wife had died without ever having a notion of the secrets he held onto. It was too late for him. Even if he decided to address this issue of his past head-on, it would not work, simply because he had become so detached from Little Pete that he could no longer engage with this part of himself. He supposed that was why he hadn't been hugely unsettled by his suspicions about James, or by those moments when their conversations touched lightly and dangerously on this area. 

He experienced an odd wistfulness for that younger version of himself, the Sergeant, who ricocheted from boozing himself into oblivion before covering up again. That young man had been passionate, fiery. All too often these days he was just tired. 

Seeking to refocus on James, he pressed the phone against his ear, listening to the laboured breathing on the other end. The lad was struggling with something, but what? He began to speak, his voice barely under control, thick with unshed tears. 

"I meant to say- you can tell by looking. You can tell that there's something wrong with them because otherwise it wouldn't have happened to them. And you don't look in anyway wrong."

"Doesn't work like that, James. Can happen to anyone. Believe me, I still have a hard time with that idea."

Henry, Angela, Nicholas, George, Benny, Big Pete, Little Pete- could you tell by looking at them, by a group photo, in black and white? 

"James. Take me as your terrible warning. You really don't want to end up like me. Find some way of battling this."

"I can't. I can't tell anyone ever. It's too much. I don't want anyone to know."

"Doesn't have to be today or tomorrow. But sometimes, before it's too late, before you're as old as I am, tell someone. There's always one person, somewhere, an unlikely one but stronger than you think. And they'll listen, they'll be able to help more than I can."

"Not right now. I need to get through this Zelinsky case. After that, I'll see." He paused before asking, in a near whisper. "Did you tell mum about this or-?"

"Not a word. About me, or about you. Never will. It's your business."

"I'm sorry."

"What are you apologising for James?"

"I don't know. For not being just your average nephew? For burdening you with this? For what happened to you. For reminding you."

"None of that, I'll have none of that. Don't apologise. Just get through this. Don't let it ruin you." 

When he hung up the phone, the silence engulfed the flat once more. Out of this silence emerged the memory of large blue eyes gazing at him in shock and sympathy, outrage and camaraderie. Morse always did have the most expressive eyes, capable of running the gamut of emotions in a split second. It was in the anger on his behalf that Peter had found support. If he had instead seen pity reflected there, he probably would've hit Morse. That attempt to give him back some power, some agency, giving him a chance to confront Deare, it had just been too much. 

He hardly ever allowed himself to imagine what ifs, but tonight he did. What if he and Morse had met when he was younger? Would he have been a different man? Would he have stayed longer in Oxford, would he have stayed longer with Morse? 

A soft snort escaped him. He was forgetting that Morse had had his own demons, memories which stained and shaped his life, and from which he'd never freed himself. The way things had happened between them had been imperfect, to say the least. But those remembered sensations continued to hit him with the force of a sun beam angling through drawn shades. 

He didn't try to kid himself- in his current state, James wasn't even able for a coming together such as he and Morse had somehow sustained. The lad would probably never recover entirely. But there had to be a better way to live, there had to be hope for alleviating his all too apparent ongoing suffering.  
Peter carefully put the nearly overflowing ashtray on his bedside table, and rolled over on his side, seeking sleep. He hoped that James would find some rest tonight too.


	8. Time

James stood at the bar, hoping that the combination of too much alcohol and overly-loud dance music would help deaden him not only to his unsavoury surroundings but also to what was in his own head. He had yet to find a method of permanently silencing the unwanted noise within him; yet, the past few years- and in particular, the past few months- had demonstrated to him that copious amounts of alcohol ingested in an indiscriminate manner lent him the distance from his own self that he craved. The cost of this, however, was having to relinquish full control over his body, his memory and his ability to analyze. The pain which followed the morning after was of little consequence to him. Rather, he welcomed it, as it served to forcibly sharpen him, narrowing his world down to the throbbing in his head and the work in front of him.  
The dance music helped as it was so utterly obnoxious and attention-seeking that each juddering beat made it extremely difficult for him to form complex thoughts. Sometimes the cacophony of the night club was a greater refuge for him than the cloistered stillness of the church. Tonight was such a night. 

He had already lost count of the drinks he'd consumed, as he had lost count of days passing. This inability to measure time had begun to occur since Crevecoeur had come back into his life. The case was officially over and yet, time seemed to pass as though there was no structure regulating it and James was powerless against this current. He continued to wake and ready himself in time for work, however, everything else ran through his fingers as water. No certainties remained- without warning time would change and he no longer knew whether he was a police officer or a child, whether Lord Mortmaigne was dead or alive, whether it was summer or winter or no time at all. Drink did not clarify any of this for him; it only served to make matters simpler by removing his ability to understand them. 

With his mind as disengaged and as deadened as was possible, he found himself remaining in this hideous place, watching those around him fumbling unsubtly through some semblance of seduction, aggressively and blatantly grasping each other, their faces as dumb and over-excited as animals. It was too warm, too sticky, he could feel sweat beginning to bead on his body. The smell of this place was too much, it was too close. He wanted to do this to himself though, to rub his face in that which repulsed him. He'd always found other people's scent hard to tolerate. Strong, heavy sweat turned his stomach, always had. He could not remember a time when it had not. He drank again, hoping the alcohol would counter the thick cloud of human excretion hanging in the air. 

He attempted to look at those around him and judge whether they were attractive to him or not. He wouldn't allow his gaze to follow those men who were older, a good deal older than him, even though they were perhaps the only ones he could even entertain approaching. Never. Never. He sought instead to return the interested glances from younger men, sleek individuals with lizard-like eyes flickering over him, assessing, judging, roving. He drank again. Why did people do this? Why couldn't he do this? He turned his back to them all, supporting himself on the bar instead. If he didn't have to go through the idiotic charade that was taking place on the so-called dance floor he could get through this. He didn't want it- he wanted to want it and wanted to already have it over and done with. He needed to have someone take charge of this, to drag him along like the meaningless current of time did. 

Invariably, someone came, accepting the challenge of James Hathaway's stony expression, his awkward stance and his silence. He was young and brash, crass almost. James let it wash over him, barely registering the man's moving mouth as anything but another part of the noise around him. When the man indicated that they should remove themselves from this place to somewhere else James simply followed. 

Easy, easy, easy. He could do this, as easily as Scarlett had done it to him, as Feardorcha had. His body lay limp in the passenger seat, as limp as his mind. He had no desire or need, his only need was to have that same desire that everyone else seemed to take for granted. Even with Feardorcha it had not been desire or attraction which had drawn him in, it was the memory of Will. Unbidden, the memory of Will swam to the surface, the only coherent thought in his booze-addled, exhausted mind. After the fire, even after talking to his uncle, James had resolved not to grieve Will. Allowing himself this would be to give himself permission to eventually forget Will, or to take only pleasure from his memory. Will had come to him for help and advice; James had spoken words which had poisoned his friend's life. It was only right for the memory of Will to hurt, scratching at his skin, little hooks reminding him of how low he could be at heart, little hooks pinching and disfiguring him, anchoring him to his past. Often, he understood Will's image as representing his failure to overcome his own history. God had given him a challenge, a chance at redemption to make both his and Will's life better, and he had been unable to measure up to it. So, Will haunted him, accompanied him, and James sought it out actively, tortured himself with it. 

Even when they were inside the man's apartment and as he poured out further drinks for them, still James believed he would be able to go through with this. Yet when they made their way towards the bedroom, a dread overcame him, and his stomach roiled. Panic threatened to engulf him. He saw no way out of this situation, a way out that didn't end with him pinned underneath this other man. 

Instead he managed to gather his thoughts together and went down on his knees, stopping the man's progress to the bed. This he could do, indeed had done times beyond number. It was a way of maintaining some distance whilst giving the other person what they wanted. This allowed for him to remain clothed and keep most of his body away from the unwanted probings and graspings of wandering hands. No opportunity was available for sweat to mingle, or indeed, other bodily fluids. Subjecting himself to potential hair-grabbing (difficult enough to gain a secure hold with his head shorn as closely as it was) or having his head forced too hard and held down were the only drawbacks of this situation. However having initiated this act, the man seemed content to let James continue in taking the lead and simply stood there, happy to be done to. 

He was good at this, and fought his urge to flee, knowing that the better he performed the quicker this would all be over. A rhythm emerged and the repetitions of these mechanical acts helped James to disengage, to disappear until he was scarcely aware of what he was doing and yet was able to continue doing it. He retreated not to some imagined place, but rather found a non-place where he could simply not be, and where nothing else was, not even God. 

His mouth hurt, and he desperately wanted to wipe the spit dribbling along his chin but didn't dare to move his hands and instead kept going, pushing himself to maintain his action, promising himself a long, long shower as soon as he could extricate himself from this situation. 

Come mixed with the saliva and James pressed his fingers to his lips, swallowing it down, holding himself still as the man held onto him for support. 

He didn't remember how he had got out of the apartment but now he found himself hurrying down the road, trying not to break into a flat out run, for that would certainly attract unwanted attention to him. Sucking in deep breaths through his mouth, seeking to avoid the smell clinging to him, he strode along as if he knew where he was. The address the man had given the taxi driver eluded him and so he kept going, following the road, which eventually led him back to Oxford town. A taxi would have brought him back to his apartment much faster but he couldn't stomach the thought of being in a confined space with a stranger. He wanted to be invisible for a while, to try and scrub this entire evening off of himself somehow. He thought briefly of his uncle and dismissed the idea again instantly. He never wanted anyone to know about this night. In time, hopefully he too would forget it had happened or he'd at least be able to pretend so. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------

Behind his desk, James surreptitiously shook another two paracetamol into his palm and sneaked them into his mouth without Lewis noticing. He likely needn't have bothered with being so careful- the Inspector had his back turned to him, and was poring over a rather thick file. For an average sized office the distance between them seemed cavernous. This gap had opened up in the aftermath of the Feardorcha case and then Crevecoeur had served to widen this breach irreparably, it would seem. They continued to work together, and worked together very well indeed, but Lewis had noticeably retreated from him. Initially it was an extension of his being furious and exasperated with his Sergeant. Yet now, compounded by what had happened with Scarlett and everything else that had been left unsaid and unbroached about that particular case, their relationship had returned to a purely professional one. Only now in its absence did James experience how heavily he relied on his boss's gentle kindness, his affability, and his strength. It was as if the evening sun had gone in. There was no sense in worrying over it- he had done it to himself. Each display of concern or inquiry James had met with silence, blankness, cryptic answers, followed by simply shutting down. He had said good evening and walked away. You reap what you sow. He'd adapted to Lewis' new attitude and sought to meet it appropriately and carry on. 

Certainly the after effects of his escapade last night was not aiding him in this endeavour. His temples throbbed, the skin spanning his skull feeling as if it were one size too small for him. Focusing on the work at hand was proving to be challenging indeed, as the words scuttled away from him, not revealing their meaning and intent to him. Perhaps if he could have another cigarette, another cup of coffee? Or if he could just work in solitude and not be so sharply aware of the division between him and his DI. 

The pain in his head was overwhelming; James put his elbows on his desk and rested his head in his hands, shielding his closed eyes from the daylight. Bloody fool, he mouthed to himself. Can't even do your job well now, or even competently. He pressed his fingertips to the bridge of his nose, seeking somehow to relieve the pressure building behind his eyes. He ached everywhere, deep down in his bones, he ached all over. Thoughts of the previous night's activities came to him, unbidden. Attempting to banish them he tried to light upon something else to fill his mind but once again, any conscious control and choice was wrested from him as Uncle Peter's words came back to him, jumbled in with an incoherent narrative involving Feardorcha, Will, Scarlett, himself. He bit down fiercely on the soft flesh on the inside of his hand, desperately trying to restore himself to the present moment but it had no effect. This pain simply became part of the hurt coursing through his body. He swallowed thickly, fearing he would vomit. Unable to fight against his body anymore, it broke out of his throat, but instead of spewing, a sob escaped his mouth. 

There was silence for a moment, and he fought in vain once again, his frame shaking violently with the effort. 

"James, James lad, what..."

He couldn't move, there was no strength or power in his limbs. Head hanging, keening cries tore through him, he couldn't get enough air, his shoulders heaved, he became increasingly light-headed and he slumped forward, forehead pressed against his paperwork. Dimly aware of his surroundings, he registered movement in the room, he heard a door being closed and locked. He gave himself over fully to this monster, this unholy beast which had seized his body. Now that Lewis had left the room, had left him alone, hopefully he could void this poison from himself and regain some semblance of composure. 

However, he did not expect to feel someone drawing closer to him, placing solid arms around his shoulders and holding on, gently working against any of James' residual resistance and pulling him closer, holding him to his chest. Lewis said nothing and James was incapable of giving voice to anything except for these inarticulate, seemingly endless cries.

Fading away from himself he lost track of time once more, and when he came back to himself he could not tell how long this fit had gone on for. His throat was raw, his eyes swollen and hot but the pain in his head and behind his eyes had been greatly eased.  
Lewis kept him in this protective hold and somehow James had folded up his body and he felt a child, with his face pressed into the older man's chest. He couldn't even recall the last time anyone had offered him such simple comfort. Rather, he could but he wished not to think of Feardorcha just now. It was at the same time wildly disconcerting to be in such a position, and James extricated himself from Lewis. He let him go but kept a warm hand on his shoulder. 

James took a few deep steadying breaths, wondering what on earth to say or even how to proceed after what had just happened. 

"Thank you, Sir." His voice was scratchy in his throat but under control. "I also apologise for inflicting that on you." 

"Ach." Lewis made a face, dismissing it. "Do ye want to take the day off, head home?"

"No Sir. I'd rather stay here."

"Thought as much. I also don't really think your heading home to an empty flat is a great idea." He paused, looking at James carefully. "Is there anything I can do?"

"No, not at the moment." 

"Is this anything to do with, well, with-"

James stopped him before he could say the name of the place. "Yes, it is Sir. I apologise for it effecting my work, and you, as it has." 

Lewis made to speak again but James continued. "One day, I hope I can tell you about it. I think I'd like to be able to tell you. But I can't just yet."

"James, take all the time you need. I'll be here when that day comes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to apologise quickly for any unseemly delay in posting the next chapter. I had to rethink the whole fic as I seemed to have run myself into a bit of a wall. Then work and PhD got on top of me as well. I hope to post more regularly from now on.


	9. Still a Child.

The church was still, filled only by the beams of deep yellow light coming through the high windows. James wasn't sure how long he'd been here- yet, this uncertainty about time was not a case of gaps or missing moments. It was more akin to slipping into a near meditative state. He'd come here straight after work, seeking out the ancient stones, warm and sandy in appearance, flanked by thick branches. A strange day- how else to describe it? James expected to currently be experiencing a sickening regret, reproaching himself for this utter loss of control and the consequences of this for him and for his Inspector. And yet, he didn't. He could not tell if what he felt was relief. 

No words of prayer ran through his mind; he sat, head bowed, reflecting on the day's occurrences, and even, tentatively, approaching the events of the previous night. Though it was still not entirely easy he found himself able to attempt to understand and analyse what had happened, and what his motivations had been. Defiance? Proving God knows what to God knows who? 

The outburst itself had not necessarily brought him to this state, or had given relief. It had been so all-consuming that he could not even now remember how it had felt to be like that- his body had taken over, his mind subsumed by it. Lewis' touch had been nice, his grip was strong, certain, telling James he was going to hold him back from the threatening abyss. It had not been arousing; that was not it at all. He had wondered previously if he harboured such sentiments about Lewis, or if he could make himself do so, or if he even wished that he did. He wasn't attracted to Lewis, but perhaps it was more that he would be attracted to someone like Lewis. A smile touched his mouth- well, if he'd been upset by the gulf which had opened up between them he had certainly pole-vaulted over that. He thought of what he'd said to Lewis, that one day he would explain to him about what was going on, and even now, after the storm, he found that this was a promise he intended to keep. At an earlier time the idea of so many people knowing about, well, about all of it- for James was still uncertain as to what the scope of all this was, as it certainly didn't end with Crevecoeur- would have brought on that all-too-familiar feeling of nausea. Now, however, he could almost see a place in the future where having Uncle Peter, Lewis, and well, God knowing about it would be, not necessarily fine, but rather it would be a state of affairs that would make sense, would be helpful, even. 

What an odd group they made, him, Peter and Lewis. Peter and his Inspector couldn't be more different if they tried to be. But yet they were connected, to him, to Inspector Morse. Uncle Peter was right, he understood that now. He couldn't help him, not with certain aspects of this. Perhaps Lewis could one day assist him with that, could be relied upon to provide support which James could never expect of his Uncle. One day. Not yet. He had to sort it out with God first. He was still growing used to having that presence available to him once more after losing the connection, after being so uncertain and so terrified for being uncertain. He did not want to be rid of his faith, he had no desire to cast off his belief. Would that simple rejection were the solution to the ongoing question of his relationship to God. No, the two of them had to work it out together unfortunately. Still, it was good to be able to reach out his hand and find God there, ready to listen, to be questioned and railed against but never to be disdained utterly. For the first time in quite some time he was glad to have possession of this belief instead of perceiving it to be hampering him or to be contributing to his confusion. 

 

\------------------------------------------------------------

Peter's face betrayed little surprise when he found his nephew outside the apartment. James didn't miss the swift appraisal his uncle subjected his frame to. He surreptitiously sought to glance at Peter the same way- his grey hair was immaculate as ever, his clothes however, were slightly too loose on him, weight loss evident. Who looked after Peter, he wondered. Did his daughters come to check on him at all? He knew better than to ask, to show any such concern. Still, it sounded as if he'd picked up the 'flu, a hacking cough seizing him at regular intervals. Or perhaps the smokes were getting to him?

Peter hadn't asked why he was here, nor had he made any reference to the last phone-call they'd shared. If pushed to say why indeed he had come here James would've explained it as a need to see his uncle, to meet with him more normally, to prove that they could do that still and not always end up shouting slurs or having late night confessionals. 

"It'd be easier if you lived in Oxford, I must say." James drawled, folding himself into the nearest available chair. "Could pop in regularly and visit you." He said it in his usual tones, touched with sarcasm but he did mean it. Peter was retired, surely there was no reason to stay in London? Was it so very difficult to come back to the town of his youth? Someone could check in on him, make sure he was in better shape than he was in currently. 

Peter gave him a funny look before replying. "How close do your parents live to you? How often do you go and see them?"

James inclined his head as if to say "Fair enough". They sat over coffee, James detailing the latest case he and Lewis had been working on, Peter giving his opinion on the strange circumstances of the lecturer's death. 

A lull fell in the conversation and James asked "Do you think people are basically good?"

"James, I didn't realise we would be discussing morality and philosophy tonight." 

"I didn't realise we'd ever left the subjects." He smirked. Peter gave him a long-suffering look. "No, no, truly, I've been wondering for a while not what you thought, as a police officer."

"Is this good as opposed to anything else? Are we including the idea of evil in this as well, or is it just a question of basic goodness?" 

"Well, evil is another question entirely, but yes, let's include evil in this idea." Another reason why he had come to visit his uncle- there weren't many other people, if any at all, with whom he could have such conversations. He enjoyed the rhythm of their talks, the challenge of it. 

"What's brought this on? Are you still thinking about Zelinsky?"

"Partially, I suppose." He didn't need to say anything further. Of course he still thought about Zelinsky and Peter had to be aware of that. 

"I don't think people are basically good, or bad. People are basically self-centred, hard-wired to do their best to ensure their own survival, and once that condition has been met their main concern is seeking that which is pleasurable to them. People don't do things based on morals, they act based on desires, and fears too, and then justify it to themselves." Peter glanced over at James. "Ah. Should've guessed that wouldn't sit well with you. I'll stick by it though because if anything that's what I've taken away from my time as a copper. I forgot that you believe in souls and confession and all that." 

"You don't think we've had any higher feeling bestowed upon us?"

"Yes. But only some of us live by it. A few of us rise up above the selfishness of existence and listen to that feeling on a sporadic basis. Those are the moments when people are 'good'. But I don't believe we are good at our core."

"But if you believe that people aren't basically good then do you believe the opposite, that no-one is basically bad, or evil?"

Peter took a breath in before replying. "Yes, that's just what I think."

"How? How can you say that?" James asked more forcefully than he had intended. 

"You're the one who believes in God and absolution. According to your holy book, if someone is contrite then God forgives them. Surely that implies that no-one is evil if we are all redeemable and all we have to do is ask?" Peter extracted a cigarette from the packet lying near him. "It took me a long time but eventually I had to admit to myself that there is not a huge difference between me and those men at Blenheim Vale." He lit the cigarette; the light flickering around his face made him appear even older than he was, looking even haggard. Perhaps I have done this to him, James thought; my presence and my story has done this to him, brought far too much back from the past. 

"Peter, what can you mean by that?" 

And yet he pressed on with his questions- because he simply had to, it was who he was, he had to know, had to interrogate. 

"Those men used their position to satisfy their- their needs. When I was a Sergeant I sold inside information about cases to the papers because my most urgent need was money." His hand remained lightly curled, held in front of his face, the cigarette burning. His gaze was unfocused. In spite of the ease with which he spoke, James sensed that this argument, though accepted by his uncle and rehearsed a thousand times, was still one he struggled with. 

"I never wanted to be poor again. Being poor meant being powerless. So I abused my position and my power for personal gain. The only difference between me and the men at Blenheim Vale is that of degree." 

"You put what you did on a par with...with..." James gestured helplessly. 

"Yes. It helps. I don't know if you can understand that?"

James found himself biting his thumb and removed the digit from his mouth. "At the moment, no."

"Thinking of them like that makes them less terrifying to me. When I was younger I made myself forget, that was how I dealt with Blenheim Vale. That didn't last of course, so I needed to do something else. I had to do what Morse tried to give me- to have some sort of agency. If I think of those men as weak people led around by their perverted desires then I can place myself on an even footing with them. But to think of them as evil, as monsters, that makes them more than human, more powerful than I can ever be, and it makes me a child again. To a small child, they were monsters, horrible figures, massive in size, over-pow-" Peter fell silent. "It's not that I'm trying to minimise what they did." He resumed. "I still wish they could've been punished for all they did. For me, I will always judge them guilty, no matter what Jesus thinks. But I feel stronger in myself if I think of them just as men. Otherwise I would have to entertain the idea that evil picked me. Instead, I was just a child who couldn't defend himself and who happened to be in the wrong place and met the wrong people. If I accept that they were evil, then I have to see myself as having attracted evil. So instead I rob them of their monstrosity."

James thought of how jarring it had been to see Lord Mortmaigne, how he had become an elderly man. It had seemed wrong to him- he didn't deserve to ever become a mild-looking old man, his appearance needed to match the sensations and fragments of memory James allowed himself to have. It was beyond his comprehension to stand before Lord Mortmaigne, to stand there a tall and well-dressed man. It panicked him, that people would never believe he had once been subject to what had happened in the summerhouse, and that this shuffling figure would not be recognised for the tormentor and abuser he had been, someone who had once been able to overpower him. 

James closed his eyes. He had to stop there. Another time. Another time. It was too much just now. 

"James?"

"I'm sorry, Uncle Peter. I'm simply not ready to entertain such an idea yet. For me, he's still a monster." And I, he silently added, am still a child.


	10. Ramblin' Boy

The sun beat down on James' skin, unrelenting; not at all a gentle caress lulling one to a pleasant half-sleep, lying on the beach. This was an unbroken beam of heat, so much so as to be almost unbearable. The landscape here in Croatia had been formed by it, so utterly different to England's dark greens and slate greys and wet browns. This was white yellow, duck-egg blue, absence of greens and greys. James had hardly been out of his native land until this- there had been one school trip to France that his family had scraped up the money for, from where he still to this day did not know. His childhood holidays had been spent on different camping sites in England. Travel had never been a high priority for him. Not that he was indifferent to the pull of far-flung places, but rather up until now they had not been an option. Now he had disposable income and no-one to tell him what he should do with it. No, it wasn't the idea of travel that was off-putting, it was the thought of having to interact with other tourists and to have to come into contact with their slovenly attitudes and to experience their crass ignorance. He could not walk through Jerusalem, those sacred spaces shattered by thoughtless crowing and demand of sightseers. Further afield he would have to go, to somewhere, for some purpose that others wouldn't engage in. 

The first few days in Croatia the heat had nearly over-come him. It was not simply that he was unused to such sweltering temperatures or that he was in possession of a fair colouring and skin that couldn't take the sun too easily. He had to engage in physical labour in weather that others viewed as a cause for a holiday or a siesta. Sweat poured out of him, his clothes sticking to him in such a disgusting way. Oh, he was certainly glad no-one from work could see him now, his shirts stained with salt rings from dried sweat, his nails dirty, skin blotched with paint, his hair matted down against his head.  
One evening he stood in front of the small, cracked bathroom mirror and shaved his overlong locks off, back to the tightly cropped, almost bare style he had sported before. That helped somewhat and he found himself luxuriating in each chance of breeze which skittered over scalp, taking a simple pleasure in this sensation he had not been consciously aware of experiencing before. 

It took him some time before he was able to forgo his long-sleeve shirts for flimsy short-sleeved t-shirts, his jeans for knee-length shorts. Of course, that had been making the heat even more overpowering, his inability to divest himself of his usual attire; even when the young boys looked at this swaddled man so strangely, he still stubbornly clung to his familiar attire. He didn't want to have to see his own body, even just his arms or his legs bared. One day, however, he could no longer work in these temperatures and he had pulled on a t-shirt and shorts and sought to avert his gaze from his own limbs. It was unavoidable however as he toiled, paint-brush in hand, stretching, moving, extending and exerting himself, he would catch sight of his forearms or his lower legs. Oh, he was so pale, his skin appeared unnatural to him. So white, so white and scored over and over with neat deep pink lines of scar tissue, broken up by a few incisions redder in colour, belying how recently they had been made.  
I don't have the right to be upset about this. I did it all to myself, I put the blade, the lit cigarette to my own skin. And yet, he was. Not for any aesthetic purpose- he did not wish to bare his body in front of some unknown other and have them appraise his figure positively. Each cut was an act of complete lack of self-control, a permanent reminder of unconquerable panic. That was what upset him, knowing they were there for the rest of his days. 

His time in Croatia passed slowly, and as he developed a loose routine of work and wandering; his skin burned first, then settled, growing accustomed to the sun, and then moved through a spectrum of shades, developing into a strong golden colour. To his dismay, initially his new colour merely served too throw the whiteness of his scars into stronger relief. Yet, once he recovered from this he could take in how the pinker, more recent lines had taken on a healthier hue. He grew accustomed to this physical examination of himself at the end of the day, applying aloe vera gel to his skin. No-one commented on his exposed skin, though James believed the evidence of his self-destructive habits was so very obvious, sickeningly attention-seeking. 

In the evenings, when his day's work was accomplished and the sun hung low in the sky, he would take long walks across the dry landscape, relishing the emptiness around him. It was only on these walks that he allowed pressing questions to be entertained- Why was he here in Croatia? How long was he going to stay? Would he even return to England? To the police force? What about Lewis?  
It was on these walks that he would chat with God, to try and find some order in his thoughts. It was only on these walks that he would think about his Uncle Peter, recently deceased, and the meetings they had had in the final few months of his life.


End file.
